


The Adventure of the Resurrected Lover

by azriona



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, Ghosts, M/M, OT3, Other, Threesome - M/M/M, Vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-07
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-18 03:50:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 27,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/556583
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/azriona/pseuds/azriona
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was supposed to be a relaxing, romantic holiday by the sea.  And then Sherlock discovered a murder.  So much for relaxing…</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Separation](https://archiveofourown.org/works/377901) by [fennishjournal (Shimi)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shimi/pseuds/fennishjournal). 



> **The Long Version (feel free to skip this):** In FennishJournal’s wonderful series, [Rites of Passage](http://archiveofourown.org/series/18534), John and Greg plan to take a holiday to the Isle of Wight, but it’s derailed by the inclusion of Sherlock in their relationship. In my reviews, I kept teasing Fen about the abandoned holiday, until Fen finally said, “Well, then, YOU write it.”
> 
> Luckily, Fen has an excellent sense of humor about these things, because that’s exactly what I did. I thought the fic would be short and funny. I didn’t expect to write a casefic of over 27,000 words. Darn Sherlock, finding a murder in the attic… 
> 
> If you’ve never read RoP, no worries. Neither had EGT, my long-suffering beta, and she did just fine. All you really need to know is that Greg, Sherlock, and John are in an established threesome, and they’re going on a much-delayed holiday together.
> 
> For those who have read RoP, here’s my idea of how that Isle of Wight holiday might go, assuming they ever actually get around to having it. The events take place about six months after the conclusion of _Transition_ , but as both Fen and I agree this is an AU of her own world, the events discussed within this story won’t necessarily line up with what happens in Part Three of RoP. (Seriously: I have no inside track to future events in RoP.)
> 
>  **The short version:** Beta’ed  & Brit-picked by Wendymr, Earlgreytea68, and Fennishjournal, who deserves extra thanks for letting me play in her world, and helping me do it right. Based on Fen’s [Rites of Passage](http://archiveofourown.org/series/18534) series, though no prior knowledge of that series is necessary to enjoy this story.
> 
> One last thing before I begin: I don’t often write to music, but in researching the Isle of Wight, I discovered that there’s a band which hails from there called “The Bees.” How could I resist? Their song [Silver Line](http://youtu.be/vsVR3mSKhJk) became something of my internal soundtrack while writing this story. There are others, but I’ll get to those later. :)

Trying to coordinate two schedules for a week's holiday was difficult. 

Trying to coordinate two schedules and a recalcitrant third party who didn't see the point in a holiday was downright impossible. 

"I have handcuffs," said Greg, and he tried to make it sound like a threat. 

"No, you don't," said Sherlock from the couch, where he stretched out lazily, bare feet on the armrest and head propped up on a pillow. Greg and John stood over him, arms crossed, like a pair of lions guarding a museum. Or thugs. Perhaps thugs. Neither looked particularly happy, but then, neither did the lions at the British Museum. And anyway, Sherlock couldn’t have cared less about Greg looking happy with him at the moment. John was another matter entirely. 

“I’ll hide your laptop,” said John. “And before you say you’d use mine, I’m taking it with me.” 

"I’ll borrow Mrs Hudson’s ," said Sherlock, and scratched idly at the nicotine patch on his arm. "I fail to see the attraction in unnecessary and messy complications of driving in unfamiliar territory with unfamiliar hotel accommodation, and not even the anticipation of an unfamiliar murder to solve. What could possibly be _there_ that you can't find _here_? Unless there are bees. Are there bees?" 

"That’s the _point_ , Sherlock," said Greg, in the tone he used when Sherlock was being particularly childish. "We don't know. We'd like to find out." 

"I don't see why I should stop you." 

"Because," said John, "we'd like you to come with us." 

"I will be utterly miserable and you will throw me into the sea." 

"Probably," acknowledged John. "But that's what romantic holidays are about, aren't they?" 

Sherlock made a face. " _Romantic_?" 

Greg sighed, and leaned over Sherlock; it was clear he had lost his grip on patience. "John and I have rearranged our schedules and taken time off work. We have been looking forward to this trip for weeks – months, really, if you count the fact that we were supposed to take this holiday last spring and had to cancel at the last minute.” 

“You could have gone,” said Sherlock, a bit sulkily. 

“No, we couldn’t have,” said Greg. “Because it wasn’t just me and John anymore. It was me and John _and you_. You're coming with us, even if I have to use those handcuffs you don’t think I have in a much less entertaining manner than you'd like and stuff you in the boot of the car myself. Am I making myself clear?" 

Sherlock gave Greg a sharp, barely disguised look of annoyance. "Perfectly," he said calmly, though with gritted teeth. "May I ask when we leave?" 

John shook his head, and half wished that Greg would teach him that trick. Maybe it would work when it came time to clean out the fridge. 

"We leave on Friday afternoon," said Greg. 

"Of course." 

"You'll do your own packing," warned John. 

"I'll be sure to bring the necessary woolly undergarments and appropriate amounts of lube," said Sherlock dryly. 

"Fantastic," sighed Greg. 

* 

October was not exactly peak tourist season for the Isle of Wight, but it was the only time that both Greg and John could get a week's worth of leave at the same time. The trade-off was that both of them would need to work through the Christmas holidays, but somehow this was tempered by the prospect of a week away from London and everything London brought with it. 

_Please don't let there be a murder, please don't let there be a murder, please don't let there be a murder_ , though John desperately all Friday morning. Greg arrived at 221B at noon, the rental car packed to the nines and a cheery expression on his face, and John modified his prayer to include a wish for lack of traffic. It took another hour before Sherlock was ready to leave, mostly because he insisted on giving Mrs. Hudson precise instructions on which of his experiments were not to be touched, and which needed stroking midway through the week. 

One look at Sherlock’s scowling face, and John began to regret having Sherlock along, not because he didn’t want his company, but because there was every chance that if they found a murder, it would be because Sherlock had committed it, and Greg was the body in question. 

“This is a bad idea,” he told Greg as they loaded the boot. 

“I have to bring the vegetables, God knows what we’ll find on the island,” said Greg, completely missing the point. 

“This is a bad idea,” John told Sherlock, who was searching under the sofa cushions for something, Christ knew what. 

“I’ve been saying that for a week, but no one listens to me,” complained Sherlock, and stormed into the bedroom. 

“This is a bad idea,” John told Mrs Hudson, who was still whirling from the litany of instructions from Sherlock. 

“Don’t be silly, dear, I can look after a few test tubes for a week,” said Mrs Hudson, and patted John on the cheek. “Have a lovely holiday and don’t worry about a thing.” 

By the time they actually left, John was wishing for a lack of murders, traffic, thunderstorms, last-minute telephone calls, epidemics of flu, body parts tucked into the outside pockets of Sherlock's alarmingly small overnight bag, and a plethora of patience. 

"John, I need your laptop," said Sherlock, sprawled out in the backseat of the car. It was too small for his legs, but he’d refused to sit in front upon learning that Greg had no intention of letting him drive or navigate. 

"My laptop is in the boot." 

"Why did you put it there? I have work to do." 

“Why didn’t you bring yours?” 

“I did. I’d like to use yours instead.” 

"It's a holiday, Sherlock," said Greg, eyes on the road. His shoulders were hunched and tense; John half wanted to reach over and rub them. "You're not meant to be doing work, you're meant to be relaxing. Christ, stay in your _own lane_!" 

"I thought holidays were meant to be enjoyable." 

"They are, generally," said John, trying not to watch Greg drive. He added car crashes to the list of things he was praying about and kept his eyes firmly on the road ahead. Not that it helped. 

"Listening to Greg curse at the traffic is not enjoyable." 

"Bugger off." 

"Was that to me, or the motorcycle which just cut you up?" 

"Both." 

"In that case, I can't speak for the motorcyclist, but John would be happy to oblige. I would be quite willing to drive in your place whilst we accomplish your objective." 

"Sherlock," groaned John. 

"Oh, all right. Pull over, I’ll join in as well." 

"Shut up, Sherlock." 

“Christ, did that tosspot even _look_ before he nearly sideswiped me?” 

Sherlock huffed and crossed his arms. 

"John, I require your laptop." 

"I told you, it's in the boot." 

"Then I require your mobile." 

"No." 

"You call _that_ indicating a turn?" shouted Greg. 

"Did you pack anything to eat?" 

John turned around in his seat to stare at Sherlock. "Wait. Are you saying you're _hungry_?" 

"Are you saying you packed food?" 

"It's a three-hour drive and we only just had lunch, of course not," said John. 

"Pity," said Sherlock. "I might have wanted to eat something." 

Greg snorted, and John glared at him. 

"I changed my mind," said John. "Let's drop him in the nearest ditch and go on without him." 

"Please. No. Don't," said Sherlock. 

"He's only doing this to annoy you, love," said Greg. "He _wants_ us to drop him in the nearest ditch so he can crawl back to Baker Street." 

"It's working," snapped John. 

"I bet he didn't even pack any clothes in that sack of his," continued Greg. 

"Well, _one_ ," said Sherlock, in the very low tone guaranteed to do lovely twisty things to both Greg and John's insides. 

It worked. The two men glanced at each other, and then quickly glanced back at the road. 

"Just to let you know," said John evenly. "Right now, I don't like either of you very much." 

"What did I do?" asked Greg. 

"Suggested we bring _him_." 

"You'd like me better if you'd given me your laptop," said Sherlock. 

"Why?" 

"Because then I would have been quiet all this time." 

"Greg?" 

"Pulling over now," said Greg. 

* 

Sherlock spent the next hour typing, chuckling madly to himself, and asking John pointed questions about various files saved in his documents. After the hour, John's laptop ran out of power, and he slammed it shut. 

“Bored,” he announced. The only reaction was a grunt from Greg, and an eyeroll from John. 

“Did you know,” began Sherlock, “there are 244 types of tobacco ash?” 

Silence. And then: “I thought it was 243,” said John. 

Greg groaned. “John. _Why_.” 

“I’ve found a new one,” said Sherlock, rising to the bait, and started in on a lengthy and chemically detailed explanation of what made the 244th type of tobacco ash distinct from the first 243. 

"Sherlock," said Greg near the two-hour mark, "if you don't shut your gob, I'm going to leave you by the side of the road, and it's a very long, very cold walk back to London from here." 

Sherlock sighed loudly and looked out the window. 

"Are we there yet?" 

John stifled a laugh. 

"Laugh, go on," said Greg. "This is your fault." 

"How is it my fault?" 

"You didn't charge your laptop." 

"I did. I don't know why it didn't last more than an hour." 

"Logging onto the internet takes up a great deal of battery power," explained Sherlock. 

"Sherlock, we're in the middle of nowhere, there's no internet here." 

"If you don't know Mycroft's passwords to the government system, perhaps." 

John groaned. 

"Is the government going to be tracking my laptop now?" 

"What do you mean, _now_?" quipped Greg. 

There was silence from the backseat. 

"I was joking," said Greg. 

"I wasn't," said Sherlock. 

"Greg, pull over." 

"Ah, no." 

John groaned and banged his head against the dashboard. 

“A headache is no way to start a holiday, John.” 

“Sherlock? Shut up.” 

* 

It was an hour-long wait to drive onto the ferry to the Isle of Wight, during which time Greg and John hunkered in the car with cups of coffee and tea respectively. Sherlock fetched their drinks, but elected to remain outside despite the light rain. He paced up and down the road, shoulders slightly hunched over, deep in thought. As the line of cars was barely moving, his pacing was not much of a problem. 

Well, he called it pacing. John called it a welcome relief. 

"Remind me why this was a good idea," he said to Greg while they watched Sherlock stride to the far end of the cars, his coat billowing out behind him. Between the rain and the fog and the grey light, he looked like something out of a film noir Hollywood tale. 

“We needed to get out of London,” said Greg. 

“No, I meant—“ John sighed and held tight to the tea. “I don’t know. You’ve done this before. Greg. Is this…I mean, are we doing all of this the right way? Maybe we’re trying to do too much together, too fast. Maybe we should be moving slower—” 

“Stop,” said Greg quickly. “I haven’t done a relationship like this before. And you’re acting as if there’s a list of rules to follow. There’s no rulebook, John. I’m not a triad expert.” 

“You’re more the expert than either of us.” 

“That doesn’t make me the authority.” 

John scoffed. 

Greg put down the coffee cup and shifted in his seat to look at John. “Is that how you see me? I’m the leader and you and Sherlock just follow along?” 

“Aren’t you?” 

“No. _No_. John – I’m not the one who pulled us here.” 

“So this is all my fault?” asked John bitterly. 

“It’s no one’s fault, John,” said Greg firmly. “There’s no fault at all. We came into this with eyes wide open. You included. Don’t tell me you’re having second thoughts.” 

John closed his eyes. “No. No. Never. No.” 

“John.” 

John’s eyes sprang open. “Just…it was a shite week. And I’m tired.” 

“That’s why this holiday is a good idea,” said Greg. “We need to learn to lean on each other again.” 

John nodded, and looked for Sherlock, out on the pier. “Wish he wasn’t being such a wanker about it.” 

“He didn’t take it well,” said Greg, following John’s gaze. 

“The holiday or last week?” snorted John. 

“Both.” 

John drummed his fingers against his leg. “Have you talked to him? Since last week?” 

“No,” said Greg shortly. 

“You should.” 

“I know that. I’ve tried. He tunes me out, every time I bring it up. You saw him, he won’t say a civil word to me.” 

John’s head fell back against the headrest. “I should have stayed at home, let the two of you have some time together.” 

“No,” said Greg harshly, and then he sighed. “Sherlock would never have agreed to come if you stayed at home. I need you here. We both do, or we’re going to kill each other.” 

John chuckled. “Talk to him. Please. I don’t want to spend the entire week between you two.” 

Greg nodded, and stared out the window, eyes searching for Sherlock. “He’s not even angry. He’s just…cold.” 

“Oh, he’s angry,” said John. “But I don’t think he knows if he’s angry at you or himself.” 

“Angry at me?” asked Greg, and frowned. Sherlock appeared through the mist, on the far end of the line of cars. 

John swallowed the last of his tea. “Remind me why we’re letting him take it out on us.” 

"He's really good in bed." 

Sherlock stopped, knocked on a car window, and when the window rolled down, a plume of cigarette smoke billowed out. He breathed in deeply, straightened, and kept moving on. 

"He's mildly entertaining," Greg tried again. 

Sherlock reached the end of the cars, turned abruptly, glared at the rain as if it was a personal attack, and began stalking back toward them. John could picture small children and animals fleeing before him. 

"He would have burned down Baker Street if we'd left him behind." 

"That's the ticket," said John. 

With a quick flick of his wrist, Sherlock turned his coat collar up around his ears. 

"Oh," said John faintly. "Right." 

"You were saying about a ticket?" asked Greg, amused. 

"As if you weren't thinking the same thing." 

Greg grinned and took a sip of his coffee. "Yeah." 

* 

"It's the _English Channel_ ," said Sherlock, his voice dripping with disgust. 

"Oh, he's clever," said Greg. 

John snickered. 

"It's October. Isn't one meant to go somewhere _warm_ in October?" 

"Greg and I will be warm enough," said John. "Seeing as how we brought _clothes_." 

"I have a coat." 

"Congratulations," said John dryly. 

"We're driving south. Why are we driving south?" 

"Because that's where we're staying," said Greg patiently. "On the south of the island. In a house. On a beach." 

"You need to look at the calendar more often. This is not beach weather." 

"You wear your coat in July, you wouldn't know beach weather if it bit you on the arse," said John. 

"All right then, Beach Weather," said Sherlock, addressing John, "tell me what we're meant to do at a beach house in October? Other than not go to the beach?" 

"Slow, isn't he?" said Greg. 

John grinned. 

Sherlock snorted, and slumped further down in the back seat, so that he didn't see as Greg turned off the main road and onto the narrow gravel access road leading to what he assumed was their place of residence for the next week. He bounced around on the back seat, hoping it wasn't going to be a long way on the gravel. It wasn't; within minutes, the car rolled to a stop. 

"We're here," said Greg, switching off the car. "And it's even stopped raining, how's that for luck?" 

Sherlock waited as Greg and John got out of the car and started unloading the boot. He kept his arms crossed, determined not to show one tiny bit of interest in wherever Greg had brought them. Logically, he knew he’d have to get out of the car at some time. But he’d rather it not be on Greg’s schedule. 

John poked his head into the car. "Sherlock, are you going to stop acting like a stroppy teenager and get out of the car?" 

"No." 

“Why are you being like this?” 

“I have no idea what you mean.” 

“Yes, you do. Look, Sherlock, I know last week was – difficult.” 

“It had nothing to do with you,” said Sherlock through gritted teeth. “Leave off last week.” 

John sighed, and rubbed his face. “Fine, if that’s what you want. But we’ve been planning this holiday for months and maybe we’re lucky that it happened now, because clearly you and Greg need a week to regroup and spend some time together and remember why the hell we’re so committed to making this relationship _work_. All right? And you behaving like an infant isn’t exactly making me feel like it has any potential.” 

Sherlock didn’t say anything. 

“Please. You don’t have to talk to Greg if you don’t want to. And there’s bound to be more than one bedroom—“ 

Sherlock’s stomach knotted at the thought of sleeping alone, while Greg and John were… “ _No_.” 

“Just get out of the car.” John’s voice was – broken, nearly. His tone was even, but Sherlock could hear the pleading underneath. Sherlock pressed his fingers together and closed his eyes. 

John sighed. "Suit yourself." 

John slammed the door shut, and Sherlock listened to Greg and John's footsteps on the gravel. For a moment, it felt like eavesdropping, as if John and Greg were on the holiday they’d planned back when he was dead, a lovers’ retreat to a romantic getaway. Dinners out, rambles on the beach, hand in hand beside a roaring fireplace. All the ridiculous romantic notions that he knew both John and Greg enjoyed. Touching each other shyly, and then increasingly bolder as they grew more confident in each other’s company. 

But then, there’d never been a question of confidence, not between Greg and John. Sherlock was the one who’d been tacked on to the holiday, to their relationship, to everything. He half wondered if it wouldn’t have been easier to have never come back at all. 

The footsteps faded, and the air in the car turned cold. Sherlock couldn’t wait; he scrambled to sit up and look out the car windows. 

The house loomed before him, weathered grey stone with white shutters. Two storeys, rather small for a hotel or bed-and-breakfast, but pleasant enough. It was surrounded by a garden, the grass made all the greener by the recent rain, and a line of trees blocked the view of what surely was the sea on the other side. The gravel path led straight up to the front door, where John and Greg had their heads pressed together as they contemplated the door, fumbling with something. 

A key. 

Interesting. Not a hotel, after all. Sherlock glanced at the house again, and the surrounding grounds, his mind clicking away, cataloguing and fact-checking and for a moment, he slipped into his mind palace and emerged with a smile forming on his face, his hands already pushing to open the car door. He stood and shoved them in his pockets, and went to join his lovers with a casual, unconcerned gait. 

"Oh, there he is," said Greg as John finally managed to push the door open. "Back seat not so comfortable?" 

"It’s not your house.” 

Greg snorted. "Yeah, because the Met pays me well enough to have a summer house on the Isle of Wight." 

"Don't look at me," said John. "I can barely afford milk." 

Sherlock strode into the house, sniffing. "It smells...clean." 

"That's what houses smell like when their occupants don't conduct scientific experiments on the kitchen table," said John patiently. "Nice, isn't it?" 

"I like it," said Greg. “Figured it out then, have you?” 

"Obvious," said Sherlock. "There are signs of someone living here, but not in some time, and the décor is fairly generic, with few personal possessions in evidence. A holiday rental." 

"That's better," said Greg, and he drew Sherlock close and kissed him on the cheek. Sherlock held himself tight and didn’t bat an eye. "Here you are, mate. An entire house of contents and scores of people who have stayed in it to deduce. You've got a week to tell us everything you can about who lives here and when and why. Have at it." 

Sherlock's nostrils flared, and his eyes lit up. 

"Happy Christmas," John added with a grin. “Bit early, don’t expect much in December.” 

"Hmm," said Sherlock, but he didn't even bother to shed his coat before he went into the house, already fast at work. 

Greg watched him go. “What’d you say to him?” 

John shook his head. “Verbal kicking of the arse. Maybe we should have stayed in Baker Street.” 

“None of that,” said Greg, and pulled John in for a kiss. “A change of scenery, remember. Neutral space.” 

“Neutral,” agreed John, and rested his head against Greg’s chest for a moment. “He’s still upset.” 

“He’ll get over it,” said Greg, but there wasn’t much confidence in the statement. “He just needs a distraction.” 

John wasn’t so sure. “We should unpack the car before it starts to rain.” 

“Wait,” said Greg, and putting his hand on John’s cheek, moved in for a longer kiss. John sighed into his mouth, but let Greg do the work. When Greg pulled away, John reached up and pressed his lips to the side of Greg’s mouth, and gave him a small smile. 

“Sorry. For my strop in the car, and being such a prick—” 

“We all are,” said Greg. “That’s why we’re here. Come on, let’s unpack the car.” 

After the first load, Greg concentrated on unpacking and organizing the boxes of shopping and kitchen supplies, while John continued to hump luggage and boxes into the house. They didn't expect nor ask Sherlock to help, but every time John dropped another box in the hall, he could hear him exclaiming over some sort of clue, or moving furniture from one corner to the other, or tapping against the walls. 

John had just brought in the last box, and Greg was halfway through putting the shopping away, when Sherlock appeared in the kitchen doorway, flush with excitement, still wearing his coat. 

"This is the _perfect_ house for a holiday," he announced, and Greg looked up from the fridge. 

"All right," said Greg slowly. "I don't suppose this has anything to do with the king-size bed in the main bedroom." 

"No, it has to do with the crime scene." 

Greg stilled. "What crime scene?" 

John swallowed. "Sherlock...what are you going on about?" 

Sherlock grinned at them both, his earlier concerns set aside, though not forgotten. "There has been a murder. Brilliant holiday, Greg. This makes up for the lack of bees. Now where did you pack the latex gloves?" 

* 

It was somewhat anti-climactic, seeing the trunk in the attic, considering that John had visions of blood and hanging bodies and who knew what else. But there Sherlock crouched, latex gloves on his hands to protect the old newspaper clippings from any resident oils on his skin. Dried bits of lavender clung to the items, filling the air with its scent. Watching him unpack the trunk was a bit like watching a small child on Christmas morning. 

"Listen to this," said Sherlock, and he began to read. "'Mrs Cecily Kinton was found dead of a bullet wound to her abdomen in her bedroom on Saturday morning. She was discovered by the maid when she did not come down to breakfast.'" 

"The husband,” said John. He sat next to Sherlock, too curious about the contents of the trunk to stay away. “It’s always the husband.” 

“Not true,” said Greg, who was somewhere in the back of the attic, poking around the cloth-covered bits of furniture. “Sometimes it’s the lover.” 

“Married ladies a hundred years ago didn’t have lovers,” said John. “Especially not Victorian ladies.” 

“What world do you live in?” asked Greg, amused. 

“Burglary,” said Sherlock, scanning the article. “According to this, of course. But nothing was missing, according to the husband, and no one saw the burglar.” 

“Is that her?” asked John, picking up a daguerreotype lying on the floor next to Sherlock. 

“Yes,” said Sherlock with a quick glance. 

The young woman in the daguerreotype wore a hat with a large ostrich feather on top of her bouffant-styled hair. She looked just to the left of the camera, a dreamy expression on her perfectly oval face. 

There was a crash from the far end of the attic, and John straightened. "Greg?" 

"Fine, I'm fine," Greg called back. 

"Botched burglary,” said John. “Can’t be that uncommon, can it?" 

"It happened _here_ , in this very house," said Sherlock triumphantly. 

"Oh, go on," Greg called. "This house can't be that old, the beams aren't more than thirty years old back here." 

"I know you tend to miss the obvious, Greg, but did you happen to see the cornerstone when we pulled up the drive? The house has been standing since 1853. Wood can be replaced. Cornerstones, not quite so much." 

"Right, sorry, I'll be sure to check the cornerstones the next time I rent a holiday house, shall I?" 

"And anyway," added Sherlock. "There's a photograph of the house with the newspaper clippings, and the caption 'Location of Mysterious Death'." 

“Ah, well, if the newspaper says the death is mysterious, clearly it must be so,” said John dryly. 

"I need more data," said Sherlock, springing to his feet. "Greg! Is there an internet connection?" 

"What, can't use Mycroft's secret network?" 

"Never mind, I'll find it myself. Come along, John." 

"To watch you surf the internet?" 

"No, you're going to examine the rooms and determine which was Cecily's. Off we go." 

“Let me know when you’re done, and I’ll have tea ready,” said Greg as he came out from the back of the attic, brushing the dust off his hands. 

"Don’t be ridiculous, Greg - you're a detective inspector. Inspect the attic!" retorted Sherlock, and flew down the stairs to the lower levels of the house. 

“This was supposed to be a holiday,” said Greg to the attic. 

"This is your fault, you know," John said. 

"How is it my fault?" 

"You said Sherlock needed a distraction. And so you picked a house with a _murder_." John went down the stairs, stomping a little bit harder than was truly necessary. 

"It's not like it was in the _brochure_!" Greg shouted after him, before ducking back into the depths of the attic. Maybe if he found a written confession, Sherlock would calm down and they could have a pleasant holiday. 

He wasn't counting on it.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to note that the _Watergeus_ really did exist, and really did sink off Shanghai in November 1892. God Bless [Wikipedia](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/List_of_shipwrecks_in_1892). The fate of its crew, however, is my own invention.

Sherlock spent the most of the afternoon on the internet, breaking into various confidential files to determine exactly which bits of the house were original to the late 1890s and which bits had been tacked on after the fact. He checked up on John's architectural investigations frequently, and late in the afternoon, interrupted John and Greg's rather enthusiastic experimentations regarding a bed in the corner room. 

"Oh, now, _really_ ," Sherlock scoffed as John lay on the mattress groaning, and Greg straightened his shirt with an impish grin on his face. "There's been a _murder_ , and if I can't giggle at a crime scene, you certainly can't be doing _this_." 

"A murder a hundred years ago," Greg pointed out. "And I suspect we aren't the first to get up to anything in this room since." 

"Besides, this wasn't Cecily's room," said John, who sounded oddly strained. Or not so odd, considering what Greg had been doing. “There's one window and the article mentioned at least two." 

"Even so. I have further proof it wasn't the husband, gentlemen. He was apparently quite an important figure in the local constabulary, and had spent the previous week in London while working on a case of some sort." 

"So he hired someone," said John. 

"Copper hires someone to kill his wife?" Greg made a face. "Too messy, too many witnesses, too much potential for exposure. He might have the connections to get it done, but he wouldn't chance his reputation." 

"Remind me never to get on your bad side," said John, eyeing him. 

Greg patted John's leg reassuringly. 

"I'm going to start dinner," said Greg. "Pasta sound all right?" 

"Yes, ta," said John. 

"If you've determined that this was not Cecily's room, then have you at least determined which one was?" demanded Sherlock. Greg rolled his eyes and kissed him lightly on the side of the head as he left the room; Sherlock ignored him. 

"There’s only three rooms which could have been Cecily’s, and my money's on the room with the king-size bed. First, because it's the largest and most likely would have been reserved for the man and woman of the house. Second, because the attached lavatory wasn't always a lavatory - it's clearly been there a while but the room is older than the fixtures, so I suspect it was an antechamber of some sort, a dressing room or wardrobe. And third because it has a fireplace." 

John grinned at him, hoping to spark some kind of reaction to the idea of a king-size bed and a fireplace, but Sherlock merely rubbed his hands together in delight and grinned in a way that had nothing to do with the delights of a king-size bed and a fireplace. 

"Excellent, let's go examine it for clues." 

"What clues? She died a hundred years ago." John swung his legs off the bed and followed Sherlock. "You don't honestly expect to _find_ anything, do you?" 

"John, you place entirely too much credence on linear time." 

John paused, trying to wrap his head around _that_ particular insult. 

"I give up," he said. "Fine. Let's examine a century-old crime scene, that's exactly what I wanted to do on my romantic holiday." 

The master suite was a large and airy room, with four windows looking out onto the sea. The walls were painted a pale yellow color with white trim and a thick cream-colored rug lay on the hard-wood floor. The fireplace was off to the side, red brick with a black screen, and though it was clean, it was clearly used with some frequency, given the deep ash stains on the interior. The room was plain and simple, and John had trouble imagining anyone from the Victorian era actually living in it. Cecily Kinton would likely have been more at home at 221B with the fantastic wallpapers and skull on the mantelpiece. 

Sherlock was already at the fireplace, testing the flue and twisting his head to look up the chimney. 

"Clean," he pronounced, pleased. "And in perfect working order. I believe the fixtures have been replaced - oh, twice at least, since Cecily's murder." 

"Only ever heard of one bloke who went down chimneys," said John. "Don't suppose you see any bits of red velvet worked into the brickwork, do you?" 

"There's no need to be snide, John." 

"Oh, of course not, my apologies." John crossed the room to the windows, and worked one open. It was cold and crisp outside, faintly damp even though the rain had long since stopped. He leaned outside and took a deep breath of sea air. "Gorgeous," he said. 

"Hmm?" 

"The view," John explained, coming back in. "There's a trellis along the wall just here, but I doubt it's forty years old, let alone a hundred." 

Sherlock stood back from the fireplace and frowned. "This room has been redecorated." 

"Yes, most modern day people don't want to live with overly floral and dark wallpapers in their living spaces." 

Sherlock glanced at John. "Never heard you complain before." 

John sat down on the bed. "I think the bed's been replaced too. Should we give it a closer inspection?" 

"If you aren't going to take this investigation seriously—" 

"Sherlock, you have to admit, it's a little hard to take this seriously. It happened a hundred years ago - for all we know, the owners of the house don't have a clue that Cecily even existed." 

"The trunk was open when I found it," said Sherlock stubbornly. "Clearly someone had been looking through it before I went into the attic. Someone is still interested in how Cecily Kinton died." 

"That doesn't mean you need to solve it," said John gently. He stood up and wrapped his hand around the back of Sherlock's neck, and pulled him close. “You’re avoiding Greg." 

"I'm not," said Sherlock, but the stubborn note was still in his tone. 

“Yes, you are. You spent the entire trip down here in a strop, you haven’t said one word to us that wasn’t about a hundred-year-old murder since we arrived, and you’re pulling away from me even now. Christ, Sherlock, you couldn’t even sit in the _car_ while we waited for the ferry.” 

“I’m not avoiding Greg.” 

“Sherlock.” John put his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head, and forced the taller man to look at him. “You and Greg have to talk about it.” 

“No, _we. Don’t_.” 

John sighed. 

“Not now,” said Sherlock under his breath. “We’ll talk. I promise. Just…not now.” 

John nodded. "All right. I'm going to help Greg get dinner on the table, and then we're all going to sit and eat it. You and I will do the washing up, and then we're going to bed. _This_ bed, all three of us, by the way, so if you want to sit up here and imagine some entertaining ways of occupying it, that would be appreciated." 

Sherlock glanced at the bed, and his mouth quirked. 

"I suppose the mystery can wait until morning." 

"I don't think Cecily will mind the delay," said John dryly. He kissed Sherlock gently, twice, and then moved away. "You _are_ going to eat dinner." 

"If you insist." 

"Greg," John called as he went down the hall. "Do we have the stuff for a salad?" 

Sherlock didn't hear Greg's answer, and didn't particularly care either way. He looked around the room, frowning. 

"Cecily Kinton," he said aloud. "Cecily Kinton...who killed you?" 

* 

"Excellent choice in houses," said John as he came into the kitchen. 

Greg groaned. "I swear, I had _no_ idea." 

"It's all right," said John, peering in the fridge. "At least he's entertaining himself." 

"He'll probably do it, too," said Greg as he stirred the sauce. "Solve the murder, I mean." 

"Yeah," said John with a grin. He kicked the fridge shut and dropped lettuce, cucumber, radishes, and peppers on the counter. "He probably will." He frowned. "So who do you think murdered Cecily?" 

"I doubt it was a burglar. But if anyone's going to figure it out...." Greg shrugged. "Well, it'd be the mad bastard upstairs, wouldn't it?" 

John sighed. "I just...I was hoping for a holiday without a body involved." He grinned half-heartedly at Greg. "Well, not a dead one, anyway." 

Greg laughed, and left the sauce to give John a hug. They stood quietly, listening to the sauce bubble gently on the stove-top. “I think he needs a holiday.” 

“Course he does. Do we?” 

“He’s still waiting for the shoe to drop.” 

John closed his eyes, and sighed. “Christ. He doesn’t think that he’s the shoe, does he?” 

“Wouldn’t you?” 

John pulled away. “What I said in the car earlier – I’m sure about you, Greg. I’m sure about Sherlock.” 

“You’re just not sure about _us_ ,” Greg finished for him. 

“It’s more than that.” 

“I know. But you and I – we’ve got the history. Sherlock doesn’t.” 

“You’ve known Sherlock longer than I have.” 

“But you’ve _known_ Sherlock longer than I have,” Greg pointed out. “I might have known Sherlock as a person longest, but as a lover? That’s still new. And it came nearly right on top of his relationship with you. He’s still trying to figure out where he fits.” 

John sighed. “And he won’t talk to either of us about anything but this bloody murder. Christ.” 

“Let him. You know Sherlock, he'll have it solved by morning. We’ll talk then." 

"Yeah," said John, resting his head on Greg's shoulder, but he didn't sound convinced. "Yeah. Fine." 

* 

But Sherlock hadn't solved the mystery by morning; Greg knew the moment he woke in the king-size bed to find John asleep on one side, and the other side empty, the sheets cool. Greg blinked in the morning sun, and listened to John snore softly beside him. He woke slowly, and it was a few minutes before he sat up, resting his arms on his knees, and looked around the room. 

No evidence of Sherlock anywhere, but Greg was fairly sure he'd at least been in the bed with them last night. The pleasant soreness in his muscles was testament to that, and Greg carefully slipped out of the bed, in order to let John continue sleeping. He pulled on a t-shirt and a pair of pajama trousers, and went in search of his missing lover. 

The house was cold, and Greg almost regretted not grabbing a blanket before leaving the comfortable bedroom. He went into the kitchen first to check that the automatic coffee-maker had actually snapped on, and once he ensured it had, started to poke his head in the various rooms, looking for Sherlock. 

He found Sherlock in the library overlooking the beach, curled up on the armchair in his pajamas and dressing gown. Greg leaned against the doorframe and watched him for a moment. Sherlock was deeply engrossed in a leather-bound book, hadn't even noticed Greg’s presence, and he turned a page with long, nimble fingers. Greg smiled. Leave it to Sherlock to research through the night, even when the case was so cold it couldn't be rightly considered a case anymore. 

"Morning," said Greg, and Sherlock's head snapped up. Their eyes met for a moment, and then Sherlock looked back down to his book, shoulders hunching in just a bit. 

"Morning," said Sherlock, and he turned a page in the book. 

"How's the mystery?" 

"Unsolved." 

Greg nodded, and wondered when Sherlock would start giving him responses that involved more than one word at a time. "Looks like it's going to be a beauty of a day." 

"Mmm." 

Greg sighed, and walked over to the windows. He couldn't see the sunrise, not from the angle of the house, but he could see the blue-grey water stretch to the horizon, and the faint bit of morning haze still clinging to the waves. Behind him, Sherlock sulked on the couch, his own shining example of annoyance, and all at once, Greg was tired. 

"What are you reading?" 

"A book." 

Two words, that was improvement. Greg left the window and leaned over the couch behind Sherlock. He pressed his forehead onto Sherlock's shoulder, nuzzling his neck, before turning his head and pressing a kiss on Sherlock's ear. Sherlock made a low sigh in the base of his throat, not of exasperation, but of contentment, and Greg felt better, a little. 

"Hey," he said into Sherlock's skin. 

Sherlock's head tilted to the other side, exposing his long neck, and Greg kissed the base of his throat. 

"Budge over," said Greg, and after a moment of wiggling and rearranging, he sat behind Sherlock, the man's back resting against his chest. He wasn't sulking anymore, but Greg could feel the tension in him, the way Sherlock wanted both the closeness and the distance, and vacillated back and forth between the two every moment. "Ghost stories? Didn't think you were one for ghost stories." 

"No," said Sherlock, and paused. The words spilled out of him in a tumble. "There's a grain of truth in every fable. Apparently Cecily Kinton still haunts the beach near here." 

Greg thought of the mist creeping up from the water, and chuckled, partially from relief. "I can believe that." 

"If you go out on the beach at dusk when it rains, you can see the figure of a woman wearing a long dress and bonnet, staring out at the sea. She doesn't respond to anyone calling her, and if you approach her, she disappears just as you're within arm's length." 

"Not much of a story," said Greg. "No accusations via a pointed finger, no bloody garments dragging in the sand but leaving no trace? Just a woman looking out to the sea?" 

"Yes." Sherlock pressed his head back against Greg's chest. "A dozen people have reported seeing her, though of course the book says she's most likely appeared to far more who had the sense not to admit it." 

"Somehow I doubt the book put it that way." 

"No," said Sherlock disdainfully. He twisted his head to look up at Greg. "Do you believe in ghosts?" 

Greg rolled his eyes. "Demon dogs on the moor ring a bell?" 

"That was different, we were all under the influence of hallucinatory drugs at the time." 

"You can't see what you don't believe in," said Greg. 

"Believing is seeing, is that it?" 

"In a way. You said yourself, the drugs took a pre-existing belief and compounded it. I thought I'd see a demon dog, so I did. And I thought I'd see a demon dog, not only because you had seen it, but because maybe I'm willing to admit that such things might exist." 

Sherlock huffed softly, and turned back to his book. "Illogical to believe in ghosts." 

"Illogical not to, I think. And what does it hurt, if Cecily Kinton shows up on the beach every once in a while?" 

Sherlock stayed quiet, staring at the book but not turning the pages. Greg kissed the top of his head. 

"Come back to bed with me." 

"I'm reading." 

"Come back anyway." 

Sherlock sighed, and turned his head to press his cheek to Greg's shirt. "I don't want to talk." 

"I'm not asking you to talk." 

"That's what this week is about, isn't it? To _talk_." 

"Not entirely. Right now, I just want to go upstairs and find John before he wakes up, and lie on that bed with you in my arms, and the blankets covering us, and John beside us, and close my eyes and rest a little longer. We can talk later." 

Sherlock closed his eyes, and let the book fall to his chest. "There's a rug on the back of the couch. We don't have to move." 

Greg pressed his lips into Sherlock's curls and closed his eyes. Upstairs, with John, and the three of them close for warmth and comfort. Huddled together, drawing strength from each other's breathing. 

But the couch was comfortable, and the longer Greg went without moving, the more Sherlock's muscles relaxed against him. For the first time in over a week, Sherlock didn't seem inclined to shy away or hide behind anything more substantial than a ghost story. And ghosts were transparent already. 

"All right," said Greg, and he pulled the rug off the back of the couch over them. Sherlock helped kick it into place, covering their bare feet. Greg caught one of his hands in his, letting their fingers entwine together. 

This was all right. It wasn't talking, but it was the two of them, together, and for now, it was enough. 

* 

Greg voted for the maritime museum first, as the forecast predicted rain before the morning was over. “It’s all indoors, we’ll be safe from the storm.” 

“What a pity, Greg wanted to talk to a ghost,” said Sherlock, and Greg had to explain the story to John, who chuckled. 

“Sherlock will keep watch for her, and invite her in to dinner,” said Greg, teasing. 

“What about the pub?” asked John, and Sherlock looked up from his book. 

“Pub?” 

“There’s a pub in Ventnor that has a good band,” said Greg casually. Too casually, really. “I thought we’d go one night, take in some of the local scenery. But the band doesn’t play for a few days, and I doubt we’ll manage to drag you more than the once, so it’ll keep.” 

Sherlock made a non-committal sound that might have been agreeing with Greg’s assessment, and John grinned into his tea. Greg kicked him under the table, and John kicked back, and after the kicking knocked the table and rattled the china, Sherlock sighed with what might have been barely disguised impatience. 

“You do realize I know you are plotting something.” 

“What, us?” asked Greg innocently. 

“We don’t plot,” said John. 

Sherlock snorted, and he didn’t look up from the book – nor did his eyes move as he read. He remained completely still. 

“All right, we plot,” acknowledged John. 

“This is why I don’t tell you secrets,” Greg told John. 

“He can read it in the way I’ve buttoned my shirt, anyway,” said John. “And I’m not going to tell him what we’re plotting.” 

Sherlock swallowed. “What…what do you want to tell me?” 

“Sherlock,” said Greg firmly. “I’m going to ask you one favor – just _one favor_ on this holiday.” 

“Hmm?” asked Sherlock, looking up at Greg, expectant. 

“Let your surprise stay a surprise, yeah? I know you can’t turn it off, but no active deducing what we’ve got planned based on how we tie our shoelaces or what we eat for lunch or anything else, got it?” 

“Or looking it up on the internet,” added John, and Greg glared at him. 

Sherlock held himself still, and then his entire body began the slow process of relaxing. Hands, arms, shoulders, neck; he seemed to deflate as he sat, though whether it was relief or thoughtful contemplation was difficult to tell. 

“If it’s that important to you,” said Sherlock, casual, off-hand, unconcerned, and he turned a page in his book. 

Greg reached over and took his hand, lowering the book. “It is,” he said softly, and Sherlock glanced at both John and Greg, and nodded slightly. 

“All right,” he said at last. “I promise to be surprised.” 

“Good,” said Greg, and began to clear the table. “Ready to go in twenty minutes?” 

“Where are we going, again?” asked Sherlock, ever-suffering. 

“It’s a museum all about shipwrecks,” John told him. “Apparently there’s an entire section on pirates.” 

Sherlock didn’t make a sound, but John caught his eyebrows lifting, and considered that reward enough. 

* 

The section on pirates wasn’t terribly large, but it kept Sherlock’s interest because he enjoyed picking it apart for historical inaccuracy. John was about to rescue the museum proprietor when he realized that the proprietor was actually taking notes. Instead, he went and elbowed Greg. 

“Look,” he said, nodding his head at Sherlock, and the two men watched as Sherlock lectured a growing number of people about the actual history, motivations, customs, and culture of pirates. 

“Whaddya know,” said Greg with a delighted grin. “I almost want to go and stand in the back and make smart-arse comments.” 

“You were up early.” Greg glanced at John. “We didn’t talk, if that’s what you’re asking. We just…had some time to ourselves.” 

“Good?” 

“Yeah,” said Greg, watching Sherlock again. “For now.” 

“Did you get the idea that he thought we were going to say something else at breakfast?” 

“What do you mean?” 

“When you asked him for the favor. He – I don’t know. He tensed. Like you were going to ask him to do something he wasn’t going to want to do.” 

Greg didn’t answer. John glanced at him again, and saw the tension in Greg’s jaw. Greg wasn’t going to answer; not then, anyway. 

“Go on, then,” said John finally, and watched as Greg made his way over to the group. But once there, Greg didn’t seem so inclined to interrupt, particularly when the conversation became dominated by a small boy who seemed just as interested in pirates as Sherlock was in correcting everyone’s assumptions about them, and the two carried on a question-and-answer rally that went on for fifteen minutes straight, with Sherlock patiently listening to the boy’s questions, and answering them in both a thoughtful and nearly respectful manner, never once talking down to him, but clearly at a level the boy was capable of understanding. 

John watched from halfway across the room, unable to stop smiling at Sherlock’s enthusiasm, even while his eyes glanced worriedly at Greg, standing on the sidelines. 

“Quite an expert on pirates, your friend,” said a voice behind him, and John turned to the older woman who was also watching the lecture. 

“He wanted to be one when he was a kid,” John explained. “I suppose he never bothered to delete the information.” 

“Your brother?” 

“No, my boyfriend.” 

“Ah, I didn’t think there was much family resemblance. Bit late for tourists, isn’t it?” 

“Hard to coordinate schedules,” explained John. “We don’t mind a bit of weather.” 

“Should clear up in a day or two, it nearly always does. Will you be staying long?” 

“A week.” 

“Oh, good, then you’ll have a sunny day or two at least.” 

“Hope so, there’s apparently a ghost that haunts the beach near the house we’re renting, but only on rainy days,” said John with a grin. 

“There’s ghosts all over the island,” said the woman cheerfully. “D’you like a good ghost story? My favorite is Gerald Mortimer, have you heard of him?” 

“No, not yet.” 

The woman beckoned John over to a display. “He haunts one of the cemeteries outside Ventnor, where his childhood love was buried while he was at sea. Quite a sad story. I caught a glimpse of him once, when I was very very young. Ah, here it is.” 

The woman pointed at the picture of a young man dressed in a too-small sailor’s uniform, tight around the chest, a bit short in the leg. He looked young and excited, nearly at attention with his cap at a jaunty angle, a bit like he was waiting for the photographer to finish the picture before he ran off to join his crew. 

_Gerald Mortimer was the lone survivor of the_ Watergeus _, which sunk in November 1892 near Shanghai. There were thought to be no survivors, but Mortimer returned to his home town of Ventnor three years later, fully expecting to marry his childhood sweetheart, Cecily Middlemass. When he arrived, he discovered that Cecily had died two days previously. Gerald returned to sea, never married, and never returned to the Isle of Wight, but his ghost is said to haunt Cecily’s grave on the outskirts of Ventnor, appearing on rainy nights near dusk._

John felt his blood run a little bit cold. 

“Romantic, don’t you think?” asked the woman. 

“I suppose. So what happened to him, after he came back?” 

“No one really knows, except he went out to sea and never returned. People started to see the ghost sometime after the First World War, so most people assume he died in the fighting. He wouldn’t have been too old to join up, or maybe he caught the influenza.” 

“And you saw him?” 

The woman laughed. “I was young, and stupid, and in love, and a bit tipsy, if I have to be honest. I thought I saw him, standing in the rain, and when I called to him, because I was young and stupid, he just disappeared.” 

A phone started ringing, and the woman glanced at her watch. “Oh, dear, that’s the babysitter. I’m sorry, I have to answer that.” 

“Of course, cheers,” said John absently. “Oh – don’t suppose there’s a picture of him for sale in the gift shop?” 

“I think so,” said the woman. “I’ll check once I’m finished with my phone call.” 

John studied the display for a few minutes. A quick glance showed that Sherlock was still in deep conversation with the child, but Greg had moved away and was peering at a display of coins salvaged from various shipwrecks. John took the opportunity to slip into the nearby gift shop. It was full of the kitschy things one found in small gift shops, and John grinned when he saw the pirate corner. Acting on impulse, he picked up the eyepatch and the flag. Not that Sherlock would display either, but it’d be good for a laugh. He saw the postcard of Gerald Mortimer by the register. 

“Oh, you found one,” said the woman, finished with her phone call. She rang up John’s purchases, and threw it all in a small paper bag. “Have a lovely holiday.” 

“Cheers,” said John, and took the items back into the museum. 

“Where’d you go?” asked Greg, wandering over. 

“Research,” said John, and took him over to the display. Greg read and frowned. 

“You’ve been hanging around Sherlock too long, love,” he said finally. 

John shook his head. “I don’t think so. Look at the ghost stories. They’re just too similar – two ghosts who only appear on rainy nights at dusk, disappear if anyone tries to talk to them? And a woman named Cecily who dies in the middle of the night.” 

“Cecily wasn’t that uncommon a name at the time,” Greg said. “Both of my grandmothers were named Cecily.” 

“I don’t think it’s a coincidence.” 

“And Gerald’s Cecily wasn’t married – Cecily Kinton had a husband.” 

“Okay, fine, it’s a stretch. But I don’t know. There’s just something about this story—“ 

Greg sighed. “Look, let’s go and rescue Sherlock and grab a bite to eat somewhere. I have to get some shopping and then we’ll head back to the house, okay?” 

“Okay,” said John, and went to wait for Greg and Sherlock in the car park, unable to put Gerald out of his mind.


	3. Chapter 3

"Here," said Sherlock in the attic later that afternoon. He dropped a box of books in front of John. "I need you to sift through these and see if you can't find something useful." 

"Funny, I would have thought that you'd always find books useful," said John, picking up one of the tomes. The leather crumbled a little under his fingers. "Why are these up here and not in the library downstairs?" 

"Clearly unimportant or forgotten, and also clearly very old. I half wonder if one or two didn't belong to Cecily Kinton before her death, and lacking any other clues, I'm inclined to learn as much as I can about her." 

"All right," said John, and he carefully opened the book to glance at the flyleaf. "Hoping I'll find her name written inside, along with a signed confession from her murderer?" 

"Boring," said Sherlock as he seated himself next to the trunk. 

John chuckled. "I'll try not to find one, then." 

The attic fell silent while John sifted through books and Sherlock unpacked the trunk. Soon he was surrounded by a pile of clothes, bottles, hair combs, faded daguerreotypes and tintypes, and newspaper clippings, numbering in the hundreds, easily. 

"I'm not sure I like holidays," said Sherlock. 

John looked up from the book he'd found himself reading. 

“You looked like you enjoyed yourself at the museum today." 

Sherlock made a face. "I could go to a museum in London, but I don't." 

"The whole point of a holiday is to do something different from your ordinary routine," John pointed out. He set aside the book and reached for another. "That's the whole reason we're here, so Greg can get away from the Met and I can get away from patients with sniffles and you can get away from - well, this, I suppose." 

"But I _like_ solving murders," said Sherlock petulantly. 

"I know, but—" John sighed and tried to think. "Look, Greg and I need breaks. We don't get off on murders like you do, we just wanted to have a week in a nice place and kick our shoes off and spend some time together." 

Sherlock turned back to the trunk. "You can still do that," he said, his voice muffled a little. "I don’t need your help. This isn't such a difficult case." 

"Hey," said John, and he leaned over to touch Sherlock's back. "I meant you too, you idiot. You're part of us. You always were." John grinned. "You think I'm the one who brought you two together? You're the one who brought _us_ together." 

Sherlock stilled under John's hand, and John smiled and patted his back with his fingers before drawing away. "Come on, the trunk won't look after itself," said John. "Let's finish this and go downstairs and find Greg, yeah? He bought prawns for dinner, maybe we can distract him." 

"Those two thoughts have nothing to do with each other," said Sherlock, but he continued unpacking the trunk anyway. "Why would we want to distract Greg from prawns?" 

"I don't know, it—" John's voice stopped suddenly as he opened the book in his hands. His eyes widened. 

"John?" 

John turned the book around and showed Sherlock the flyleaf. 

"Gerald Mortimer," said Sherlock, reading the name written there. He frowned. "The missing sailor from the museum." 

"Oh, good, I thought you'd deleted that already," said John, and his voice sounded odd. "What's a book belonging to Gerald Mortimer doing in this house?" 

"Perhaps your theory was correct," said Sherlock thoughtfully. "If Gerald Mortimer's Cecily was in fact Cecily Kinton, then it stands to reason she might have kept one of his books after his death for remembrance." 

" _Supposed_ death."' 

"Well, yes. You kept most of my things, after all." 

"That's different," said John. 

"How?" 

"It...it just is." John turned back to the box of books, agitated. "Maybe someone bought the book at a sale afterwards. It's been a hundred years, there's a thousand ways that book could have ended up here." 

Sherlock frowned at John. "Why does it bother you?" 

"It doesn't," snapped John. 

Sherlock shrugged and returned to the trunk. They passed the next twenty minutes or so in silence, and John went to retrieve a second box of books from the back of the attic. When he returned, he found Sherlock fingering a faded bit of cardstock. 

"What's that?" he asked. 

"Ah," said Sherlock. "Another piece of the puzzle." He handed the cardstock up to John. 

_It is with great pleasure_ _that we announce the marriage of_ _our daughter_ _Miss Cecily Amelia Middlemass_ _to_ _Mr. Thomas Rupert Kinton_ _November 14, 1894_

John let out a huffing sort of laugh, and set down the box. "Well." 

"So you were correct," said Sherlock, watching him. "Cecily Kinton had a lover prior to her husband, and died two days before his return from sea." 

"They weren't lovers. And she thought he was dead," said John, and it sounded like a terse defense. 

"Yes, well," said Sherlock, waving that away. "She's no less dead, nor less married to another man. Of course the husband is completely superfluous to the story - no wonder the museum left him out entirely, really it just muddles it all up, if she could fall in love with another man. And you have to admit it's curious that she died two days before the miraculous return. Perhaps he arrived during the funeral? What a sight that must have been! The gossip would have gone on for decades. I don't wonder at the tales that they both still haunt the area, it's a story ripe for reinvention. One of those tragic tales of love and loss, John, wouldn’t you agree?" 

But John didn't answer. 

"John?" Sherlock twisted around to look at him, but John was already gone. 

* 

Greg had set the music in the kitchen to blaring Sex Pistols, and was happily singing along at the top of his lungs while chopping onions and peppers, relishing the fact that there were no neighbors to annoy with his atrocious voice. He almost didn't see John as he strode past the kitchen to grab his coat from the hook on the wall. 

"Hey," shouted Greg. "Are you finished upstairs?" 

John stopped mid stride, came back to the doorway, and leaned into the kitchen. His face was dark with anger. "Sherlock's an idiot, and I'm going for a walk." 

Greg frowned. "I agree, and it's raining." 

"It stopped," said John. He paused, seeming to think about something, and then stepped into the kitchen, wrapped one hand around Greg's neck, and kissed him fiercely. "I love you," he said, angrily, and then stormed out of the house and onto the back porch. 

Greg, curious, washed his hands quickly and followed as far as the living room, where he could see John go down the steps to the beach. Sure enough the rain had stopped, and the sand was hard-packed and wet, which at least made for easy tromping. John huddled into his coat and shoved his hands into his pockets and headed off to the west, squinting into the sunset. 

Greg glanced in the direction of the attic, and wondered what Sherlock had done this time. He returned to the kitchen to throw the hand towel on the counter and then took the stairs at a quick jog, half concerned that he'd find Sherlock bleeding from his nose. 

Not bleeding, or otherwise incapacitated, but sitting next to the trunk in the attic, sifting through piles of newspaper clippings. Greg rested his arms on the railing and waited for Sherlock to notice him. It didn't take long. 

"John left," said Sherlock. 

"Yes, he did," said Greg. "Any idea why?" 

"No. I thought we'd made a breakthrough; he doesn't usually storm off when I make a connection." 

"No, _you_ do that," said Greg. "And leave him hanging at crime scenes, half the time." 

" _Once_." 

Greg waited. 

"All right, twice. Maybe three times." 

"I think he's entitled, then," said Greg. "What connection?" 

Sherlock held up the announcement. "Cecily Kinton, née Middlemass." 

"The girl from the museum? Yeah, John thought that might have been a possibility." 

"He was correct." 

Greg frowned. "You _told_ him that, right? You didn't gloss over him being on the right track, or insult his intelligence, or some other stupid thing?" 

"No!" Sherlock frowned and looked up. "I don't think so." 

Greg shook his head and came up the rest of the stairs. He sat next to Sherlock. "What else did you say?" 

"Nothing. I simply summarized the case as it stands - Cecily Middlemass fell in love with a sailor, he was presumed dead, she in the meantime fell in love with another man, married him, and died two days before her original lover's return. Simple enough." 

Greg raised an eyebrow. "And?" 

"And?" 

Greg sighed. "You don't see it, do you? Am I the only person who sees the parallels here?" 

"See _what_?" 

"Two people fall in love. One leaves and is presumed dead. The other falls in love again. Meantime, the dead one comes back, fully alive. This does not sound at all familiar?" 

Sherlock's mouth dropped open, and Greg reached over and closed it with a snap. 

"This is _completely_ different. You and John weren't married." 

"We were in a committed relationship," Greg reminded him. "Might not have been marriage, but it was no less loving. And you were no more dead than Gerald Mortimer." 

Sherlock scowled. "John didn't die two days before my return. Cecily died thinking Gerald was dead." 

"Yeah, and don't you think John feels for her?" countered Greg. "Don't you remember what John did when you came back?" 

Sherlock winced. "I try not to. I mean—" 

"He was in pain, Sherlock. He loved you and he loved me and he thought he couldn't have us both, so he nearly drank himself stupid and we've got Mycroft to thank that he didn't throw himself off the Tower Bridge. Cecily might have got off easy." 

Sherlock frowned and didn't look at Greg. “Yes, well, I’ll be sure to tell Mycroft that he’s the reason we’re all together. Won’t that make his day.” 

“Sherlock—“ 

“I’ll apologize to John later,” said Sherlock. “I need to finish what I’ve started here.” 

Sherlock turned back to the trunk and busied himself with the papers. Greg watched him, and grew angrier by the moment. 

“That’s what you do, isn’t it? I keep forgetting. When there’s a reality you don’t want to face, you find a mystery to solve and ignore us until we go away.” 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Sherlock. 

Greg huffed in exasperation. “What happened last week, Sherlock. We need to talk.” 

“And this is your idea of a good time?” 

“There’s never going to _be_ a good time. You didn’t give me a choice. You had me boxed into a corner.” 

“You let them _arrest_ me, Greg.” Sherlock’s voice burned as he leaned forward to shuffle the papers spilling from the trunk, piling them together roughly. “You stood there and you let them put the cuffs on me and you didn’t even have the decency to tell them who I was.” 

“It wouldn’t have done any good. What was I going to say? ‘This is Sherlock Holmes, he’s all right, let him go’?” 

“Yes. _No_. ‘This is Sherlock Holmes, my lover, my partner, my other third, and I trust him and that’s why he has half a dozen copies of my warrant card and John Watson’s gun tucked in his trousers. He didn’t steal them and he’s not impersonating me so lay off.’” 

Greg stared stonily at Sherlock. “You shouldn’t have had them in the first place.” 

“Why do you want me if you won’t acknowledge me, Greg?” 

“I _want_ you because I love you,” said Greg. “And I’ve told every person who matters to me about loving you. As well as the ones who matter to you, and you know it.” 

“No,” said Sherlock flatly. “You haven’t. The rest of the Yard – they know about John. They don’t know about me, do they? Your parents are dead, you have no close living relatives. The Yard is your family. You haven’t told them everything. And you aren’t going to tell them.” 

Greg took a breath. “This is the fourth time you’ve been found with my warrant card, Sherlock. If I had told them that I knew you carried it, I would have been suspended.” 

Sherlock didn’t say anything; he continued to throw the books and papers back into Cecily’s trunk. 

“Sherlock.” 

“You didn’t even _try_ ,” said Sherlock, and he threw the books into the trunk for emphasis. “You just let it happen, like I meant nothing to you.” 

“You don’t mean nothing.” 

“Don’t I?” 

Greg rested his fingers on Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock instantly stilled, lowering his head, breathing heavily. Greg slid closer and lifted his chin to kiss him. He wasn’t sure Sherlock would accept it at first – and then Sherlock’s arms were around him, his body heaving, holding Greg almost too tightly. Greg let Sherlock cling, and kept his kiss steady, even though Sherlock’s hungry tongue and the noises in the back of his throat were begging for more. Greg didn’t let Sherlock take control – couldn’t, really, because under his lips and his hands, Sherlock was a wild thing, lashing out, unable to remain still. 

Greg focused on the kiss: the taste of Sherlock’s mouth, the feel of his skin beneath his fingers. He took Sherlock’s face between his hands, and let Sherlock continue to lash out, let Sherlock’s arms and hands beat against Greg, push and pull in turns, let him flail and shift and squirm, until the fight was out of him, and Sherlock’s mouth relaxed under Greg’s lips and tongue and teeth. 

When Sherlock finally calmed down, his breathing rapid but no longer erratic, Greg broke the kiss. His hands stayed on either side of Sherlock’s face. He studied Sherlock’s still downturned eyes. 

“Oi,” said Greg softly, but Sherlock didn’t look up. “I do love you.” 

Sherlock didn’t say anything. Greg closed his eyes and pretended it didn’t hurt. Sherlock was stiff and still and strung so tightly, Greg thought he might shatter. But he listened – Greg knew that Sherlock stopped breathing as he spoke, clearly waiting for him to say something. Greg wished he knew the words Sherlock wanted to hear so desperately. 

“Look," said Greg, and he let go of Sherlock’s face and sat back. "John went for a walk on the beach. Let's give him a bit of time. I'm going to finish up in the kitchen and you clean up here and we should go and look for him before it's too dark, yeah?" 

"Yeah," said Sherlock after a moment. 

"Good," said Greg, and after another quick kiss, got to his feet. Sherlock didn’t move, and Greg had the distinct feeling that whatever he’d been wanting Greg to say, Greg hadn’t said it. He was partway down the stairs when he turned back. "Did you figure out who killed her?" 

"No," said Sherlock, staring at the newspaper clippings. 

"You will," said Greg, confidently, and went back down to the kitchen. 

* 

Greg finished chopping the peppers and onions, located the Tupperware and put them in the fridge for later. He expected Sherlock to rejoin him before he’d finished with the washing up, but the cutting board and knife were in the drying rack and there was still no sign of Sherlock. Greg dried his hands and went to the base of the stairs, wondering if the younger man had become engrossed in his mystery again, or was back to his brooding. 

Christ. He’d known Sherlock was upset, but…he’d had no idea he was still questioning his inclusion in their triad, or Greg’s feelings for him. And besides, Greg still felt guilty about the arrest the previous week. He’d come for Sherlock as soon as he could have done, but…it hadn’t been soon enough, and Greg knew it. 

"Sherlock?" he called up the stairs, and was somewhat relieved to hear Sherlock's footsteps as a response. At least the man was on the move - he probably _had_ been caught up by something, but clearly was able to be jerked back to reality. 

Sherlock came thundering down the stairs, papers in his hand and a wild, excited, familiar look in his eyes. "Where's John?" he demanded when he nearly crashed into Greg. 

"He went for a walk on the beach, I told you," said Greg. "Are you all right?" 

Sherlock shook the papers at Greg in glee. "Come on, what are you waiting for? We need to find him!" 

Sherlock tore out of the house, shouting John's name. Greg shook his head, wondered how he'd fallen for an overgrown puppy of a man, and went to find their coats before joining him. Sherlock wasn't too far ahead, following the clear footsteps John had left in the damp ground. 

"Sherlock, your coat!" shouted Greg, and jogged after him. 

Sherlock pulled up short and waited impatiently for Greg to catch up. His breath fogged in the cold evening air. "I'm not cold," he insisted, and Greg snorted and handed him the coat. 

"And I'm not taking care of you when you've got a cold," said Greg. "And neither will John, if you don’t apologize properly. If those papers are from the trunk, you really should have left them inside." 

"It's not raining," replied Sherlock, and was off again. "John!" 

Greg sighed, muttered something along the lines of "Berk" under his breath, and then followed. It didn't take long for either of them to catch up with John, who was already walking back toward the house. Sherlock caught him by the shoulders and nearly spun him around, his coat flapping around both of their legs. John nearly lost his balance but Sherlock kept him up. 

"All right, all right," said John, still somewhat annoyed. "Half the island could hear you shouting for me." 

"She knew, John, _she knew_ ," said Sherlock, still holding John by the shoulders. "Look—" 

Sherlock unfolded the papers in his hand as Greg caught up with them. "I was putting the books away, and a letter fell out. From Gerald, dated March, 1895. He wrote to say that he was alive and returning to the island, would arrive the 10th of April. _Tenth of April_ , John. Don't you see? That's three days before Cecily died." 

John pressed his lips together; Sherlock handed John the letter, but he didn't take it. 

"So the story was wrong?" asked Greg. 

"At least in part," said Sherlock, still looking at John, who stared stonily back. "Cecily must have known that Gerald was alive before she died. Assuming of course that his ship wasn't delayed. She didn't die without knowing, John. She might have thought he was dead before - but she knew he was alive at the end. Isn't that better?" 

"Is it supposed to be?" asked John, his mouth still tense. 

"Well..." Sherlock faltered. "Yes?" 

John shook his head. "So it's not enough that her marriage was pointless, you wanted her to know it and feel guilt about it while she was being murdered in her bed? Fantastic, Sherlock, that's just brilliant of you. Christ, your compassion for your fellow man—" 

Sherlock frowned. "John?" 

"Look," said John, tense. "I love you, but I love Greg too, and I'm not going to apologize for it. I haven't before, I'm not going to start now, and if you're still feeling inadequate about it, then that's _your_ problem, not mine." 

"No," said Sherlock, confused. "I don't – you're not Cecily, John." 

“Why would you think—?“ 

"Wait - is _that_ what the argument was about?" asked Greg. 

"No," said John, while Sherlock said, "I think it was." 

"You _think_ it was?" 

"You said Cecily's marriage to Thomas didn't matter," John said. "That he was best left out of the story." 

"I said that about _Thomas_ , not Greg," said Sherlock. "I wouldn't belittle your relationship with Greg. If it wasn't for you, I wouldn't have him either." 

John was still for a moment, and then rubbed the bridge of his nose. Sherlock stepped closer to him. "I…liked that you had him. While I was gone, that you had each other. And I was jealous, too. You know that, you saw that. But I’m glad you had the courage to be with him when I didn’t. Because you had him then, it means that we both have him now. And you're not Cecily, and I'm not Gerald, and he's not Thomas. I know that." 

“You couldn't even see the parallel. You couldn't even stop and say, 'Hey, this is familiar, let's take a minute and think about it.'" 

Sherlock's mouth dropped open, as if he was going to ask why they would even _bother_ to do that, but a quick shake of Greg's head said he probably should shelve that comment indefinitely. 

"If it's a parallel, it's not a good one," Sherlock said finally. "You didn't die. I came home and found you." He glanced at Greg. "Both of you." 

Greg nodded, with a bit of an approving smile, and Sherlock moved closer to John to wrap his arms around him. John was stiff for a moment, and then settled in. He peered at Greg over Sherlock’s arm, and Greg joined the hug, leaning in to kiss first John, then Sherlock. 

“You’re all right now, yeah?” Greg asked them. 

"Yeah," said John, his voice muffled by their combined bodies. "I dunno. Just keep thinking about them. Worse if Cecily knew Gerald was alive—" He frowned, and pulled away from the embrace. "Wait. If Gerald came back three days before Cecily's death - that means he could be a suspect. It's not much, but he'd have had some motive in killing her." 

"And with Thomas in London, no one else would have had to know he was back," realized Greg. "So he could pretend to arrive two days later, and thus provide his alibi." 

"But why turn up at all?" asked John. "Everyone thought he was dead. He could have turned up, discovered Cecily was married—" 

"Maybe tried to convince her to leave her husband—" 

"Not succeeded, killed her in anger—" 

"And then faded away, and no one would have suspected him," finished Greg. "Yeah. Perfect crime, considering there wasn't a Sherlock Holmes around to solve it." 

"I can answer that query," said Sherlock. "There's a very good reason why Gerald made sure to appear on the scene two days after Cecily's death." 

He paused, and Greg and John gave each other knowing, amusing glances. 

"Well?" prompted Greg. 

"Cecily was not the only person who knew that Gerald was alive," said Sherlock. He lifted the letter. "You see - the letter Gerald wrote to say he was alive and returning home? Was written to _Thomas_."


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to mention this last week, but better late than never: it was pointed out to me on LJ that the mystery about the three lovers (Cecily, Thomas, and Gerald) is somewhat similar to an ACD story, _Abbey Grange_. Kudos to jperceval for noting it. The funny part is, I'd wanted to update an ACD story for this mystery, but I hadn't read Abbey Grange when I wrote this, so any similarities between this and that story are purely coincidental and purely on the surface (and to me, very, very funny). Maybe I'm channeling ACD by mistake? I'll have to keep Sherlock away from heights. 
> 
> Anyway, if you're looking for clues to who killed Cecily by reading Abbey Grange, you won't find them. But enjoy today's chapter anyway!

There was just enough of the fading light left to see John’s and Greg’s mouths drop open in surprise. The sea hitting the shore sounded louder in the dark, but none of them paid attention to it. 

“Why would Gerald Mortimer write to Thomas?” asked Greg. “Unless they knew each other already?” 

“That puts a different spin on the story,” mused John. 

“The letter didn’t mention Cecily – not by name, at least,” said Sherlock. “And it was very short – just a note to say when he would be back on the island.” 

“Let me see,” said Greg, and he took the letter from Sherlock and tried to read it before shaking his head. “I need more light. Let’s get back to the house.” 

Greg began to walk back, still trying to read the letter in the fading light. John and Sherlock fell into step behind him. 

“I don’t much care for this case,” John said. 

Sherlock didn’t respond for a moment. “I can stop talking about it with you, if you don’t want to hear it.” 

John laughed hollowly. “Right. No. It’s fine.” 

“John—“ 

“Leave it. I know.” 

John walked a bit quicker, and left Sherlock behind. But he didn’t catch up with Greg, either, and the three men walked single file back to the porch, where the motion-sensor light snapped on as Greg went up the wooden steps. 

“All right,” said Greg, spreading the letter out on the table. “Well, Sherlock, I’m happy to say your summarizing skills aren’t half as shite as I thought – it really doesn’t say much other than the date of arrival.” 

John and Sherlock flanked Greg, looking at the letter. John leaned over with a frown. “‘My dear Thomas, I am writing to let you know that I will return to Ventnor on 10 April of this year. I hope this date will not inconvenience you or your new wife. Regards, Gerald.’ That’s certainly short enough.” 

“Rather,” agreed Sherlock. “And? What else do you see?” 

“Oh, God, here we go,” sighed Greg. 

“Pay attention, learn something,” Sherlock told him, and then looked at John expectantly. “You want to be involved, John. So make yourself useful. How much is this note really telling us?” 

John touched the paper with a cautious finger. “It’s short – far shorter than a note from a three-years dead friend ought to be. There’s no explanation, no reminder of who Gerald is, no apology for having not written in the span of three years. Which makes me think there was another note preceding this one.” 

“Go on,” said Sherlock, a smile on his lips. 

“Gerald mentions Thomas’s wife, even knows they haven’t been married long – but doesn’t indicate whether or not he knows who the wife is. The note is terse enough, especially with that bit about inconvenience, so I’m inclined to say he does. Or maybe doesn’t, and doesn’t particularly care, and is just being polite.” 

“A good analysis, yes,” said Sherlock. “Anything else?” 

John read the note over again. “No, I don’t think so. I’m fairly sure this note is in response to an earlier one, from Thomas to Gerald. But of course there’s no way to prove that.” 

“Not definitively, no,” agreed Sherlock, and he rubbed his hands together, less from the cold than from eagerness. “Right, let’s begin. You are correct that the note is a great deal shorter than one might expect, particularly as it is without apology or preamble. And yes, there was certainly a note that preceded it – but I would venture a guess that there may have been more than one. You surmise that Gerald and Thomas are friends, which is likely true as they use their given names with each other, which was not standard at the time. They could be enemies, I suppose, but I think it is very likely that Gerald and Thomas may never have been out of contact with each other over the three years.” 

“What makes you think that?” asked Greg. 

“It’s unlikely to think that Gerald would not have attempted to contact someone in his absence. He certainly did not fake his own death – why wouldn’t he have tried to contact someone at home to let them know he was alive and well?” 

“But why Thomas?” asked Greg. “Why not Cecily?” 

“Shock,” said John. “If she’d been told he was dead, and then received a letter saying he’s alive…” 

“Not everyone faints, John,” said Sherlock with a smile. 

“Sod off, Sherlock.” 

“So Gerald writes to Thomas, tells Thomas to tell Cecily, then…Thomas ends up _marrying_ Cecily…” Greg frowned. “That’s motive for Gerald to kill Thomas, not Cecily.” 

“You think Gerald killed Cecily?” asked John. 

“Worried?” Greg asked him, amused. 

“Sod off, Greg.” 

Greg grinned. 

“If you don’t mind,” said Sherlock. “We’re assuming this is not the first missive between Gerald and Thomas. If there were others, they were most probably destroyed – otherwise they would have been located by now and become part of the legend. Gerald gives Thomas his exact date of arrival – tenth of April – however we know that according to the legend, as well as to accounts of the time, Thomas was in London on that date. The question is why. Did he receive this letter and go to London because he did not want to confront Gerald? Or did he never receive this letter at all, and was unavoidably absent when Gerald came to call?” 

“Where did you find the letter?” John asked. 

“It fell out of one of the books as I put them away,” said Sherlock. 

John gave him a look. “You – you were putting _away_ books?” 

“Yes, John, I can in fact put things away.” 

“Christ, I should take you on holiday more often,” said John, and Greg chuckled. 

“Yes, well, you said holidays were for doing something different,” said Sherlock. 

“It’s just that – well, I have to think it was one of Cecily’s books. If the book belonged to anyone else, they would have read it after her death, right? But clearly the letter was put in a book, and never found, so the book probably belonged to Cecily.” 

“And if it was Cecily’s book,” continued Greg, sussing it out, “she was probably the one who put it there. Which means she had read the letter at some point. Thomas may never have seen the letter, so he went to London without knowing about Gerald’s arrival.” 

“Exactly,” said Sherlock, giving Greg a smile. “You do catch on, Detective Inspector. Full marks.” 

John moved away from the table and sat down on one of the benches along the edge of the porch. “Good God. Gerald _did_ kill Cecily.” 

“I wouldn’t be so certain,” said Sherlock. “Look at the penstrokes—“ 

John began to laugh. “Oh, Christ, he’s going to tell us about the ink Gerald used to write the letter now.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” said Sherlock. “I’m going to tell you about the way he formed his letters.” 

“Yes, that’s much better.” 

“Gerald wrote the letter sitting down, but if you look at the letters themselves, you can see some anomalies. You’ve seen Victorian-era penmanship; it is generally considered to be highly stylized and conforms to a certain standard. This letter, however, differs from that standard in that the strokes are short and brutal. Gerald was clearly emotional at the time of its composition; not only is his impatience evident in the terseness of the letter itself, but in the quick strokes he used to form the words. This is not an example of calligraphy, but more of how a man writes quickly. So quickly, in fact, that he broke the nib of his pen several times while writing – note the splotches and broken lines here and here. 

“So we can deduce that when Gerald wrote the letter, he was writing in haste. He was upset – perhaps he was angry, or perhaps he was merely emotional at the thought of returning home. If he was the one to kill Cecily, it was not premeditated, or he would never have written this letter in the first place, much less been emotional while doing it. Something was bothering the man, to be sure – but whatever it was, Cecily was not the cause.” 

“Well, his best friend had married his childhood sweetheart, that’d certainly set a man off,” said Greg dryly. 

“But Gerald doesn’t mention Cecily by name,” Sherlock reminded him. “He only refers to her as ‘your new wife,’ and only in passing. Can we be sure that Gerald even knew that Thomas and Cecily were married?” 

“I think we’d have to,” said Greg. “If they had been in correspondence, then wouldn’t Thomas have mentioned it? And if Gerald had written to Thomas for the sole purpose of getting him to tell Cecily – yeah. He would have told her. And then he would have been honest and told Gerald how the matter was.” 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Just because you were honest with me about your relationship with John doesn’t mean that Thomas was honest with Gerald.” 

“Look,” said Greg, annoyed. “We can argue back and forth about whether or not Gerald knew about the marriage, but we’re talking about thirty words—“ 

“Thirty-six, to be exact.” 

“Yes, boffin, ta,” said Greg, rolling his eyes. “You can deduce the ink and the paper Gerald used as well as where he was sitting when he wrote it, you can even say what you will about his emotional state – but you can’t possibly deduce why he was emotional, or whether or not he knew about Cecily. Not from thirty-six words.” 

“The salutation,” said Sherlock, and Greg groaned. 

“Christ – he could have meant it, or he could have been sarcastic. You can’t know. You’re good, Sherlock, I admit, you’re more brilliant than every detective in the Yard, me included, but you can’t know.” 

“Perhaps,” said Sherlock, fingering the letter again. “But I can surmise. And I think Gerald probably did know that Thomas had married Cecily. Why else would he have come home at all, if not to confront one or the other about their perfidy?” 

“Right,” said John suddenly, and he stood up and shucked off his coat. “Right. Well, I’m going in.” 

Greg looked at his watch. “Yeah, I should start dinner.” 

But John had kicked off his shoes and was pulling off his socks. 

“Coming with me?” asked John, and he turned his back to the house and started to jog down the steps leading to the beach. 

“Ah, John?” asked Sherlock. “The house is the other way.” 

“I’m not going into the house yet,” John called over his shoulder. 

Greg and Sherlock glanced at each other, and then walked to the edge of the porch. John continued shedding his clothes, dropping them along the sand as he strode to the water. 

“John, it’s dark,” called Greg. But John didn’t appear to hear; he kept walking toward the water, and Greg wondered what had come over the man. 

“The water can’t be more than 15 degrees at this time of year,” said Sherlock. 

“You’re going to freeze your bollocks off!” 

“Scared?” John called over his shoulder. 

“John, come back here!” shouted Sherlock, but John pulled off his t-shirt and kicked off his pants, and was standing stark naked right at the water’s edge. There was just enough light to see John’s outline, shining silver in the light against the black of the water. The curve of his back and the round buttocks, the way his shoulders rose up and down while he took deep breaths, probably gearing up for what was sure to be an extremely unpleasant and cold experience. 

“Christ,” muttered Lestrade under his breath. “John! You. Are. _Mad_.” 

“Yeah, I am!” John’s voice floated back. “Come on, then.” 

It was ridiculous; they were far too old, all of them, to be jumping around in the English Channel in October, much less when sensible people were inside by cozy fires and eating their dinners and thinking about what to watch on the telly. Cold aside, there was always the chance of the undertow or slashing open an artery on some forgotten bit of glass or being _seen_ by a neighboring house. 

Greg couldn’t remember when he’d done anything half as ridiculous in his entire life. Which was probably why he didn’t bother to try. 

“Oh, bloody hell,” he said finally, and shrugged off his coat. Sherlock turned to stare at him. 

“You’re not going in after him?” 

“I am, as a matter of fact.” 

“You’re both going to freeze.” 

“Then do something useful and make us some tea,” said Greg, and he pulled his shirt over his head as he kicked off his shoes. Barefoot, he went to join John, who had turned around to look, and was grinning. 

“Sherlock, don’t be a pansy, get over here!” yelled John, delighted, and Sherlock crossed his arms. 

“One of us has to keep some sense,” he called back. “Otherwise there won’t be anyone to call 999 when you both catch hypothermia.” 

Greg caught up with John. “He’s right. We’re complete nutters.” 

“Why do you think I’m down here?” asked John. 

“I haven’t the foggiest.” 

“Me neither,” said John. He giggled, took a breath, and ran into the surf. “OH MY BLOODY HELL BOLLOCKS FREEZING.” 

“Christ,” said Greg again, and followed, with a similar string of expletives. The water was shockingly cold, and Greg tried to keep from falling or losing his nerve as he ran straight into the waves. He wondered if Sherlock was still on the shore glaring at them, patiently waiting for them to come to their senses, but the water was too cold to really think about anything else for long. John stumbled first, falling on his left side, and came up sputtering, teeth chattering from the cold, but laughing. 

“Sherlock!” he shouted. “Come on in, the water’s fine!” 

Greg burst into laughter and gave John a hand to help him up. 

“No, ta, fine up here,” Sherlock’s reply floated back. 

John grabbed Greg’s hand and pulled him down into the water with him. 

“In you go!” John shouted as Greg sputtered and swore. 

“ _Someone_ has to warm you two idiots up.” 

“Why the hell am I in this water!” yelled Greg. “I can’t feel my bollocks!” 

“That’s because they froze off!” yelled John, gasping. 

“You’ve been in longer than me, mate!” 

“Yeah, so I should know!” 

Greg splashed John, who splashed him back, laughing. “We’re going to freeze. We’re going to bloody freeze to death in here,” gasped Greg, laughing even though laughing hurt. 

“Yeah,” said John, giggling madly. “My heart’s pounding.” 

“It’s trying to keep you _alive_ , and it’s losing. Christ, I can’t even _breathe_.” 

“We’re going to get pneumonia,” said John. 

“And Sherlock’s shite at nursing,” agreed Greg. 

“I’m a nutter. You should section me.” 

“Planning to.” 

John splashed Greg again, who giggled and splashed back. They giggled and laughed and snorted, and John fell back and kicked more water at Greg, who howled and scooted backwards on the sand, yelling as it rubbed against his already raw skin. Greg tried to keep moving; he was almost beginning to warm up, though he still wasn’t sure he’d call the water anything approximating _pleasant_. Neither man noticed the figure standing by the side of the water until the figure spoke. 

“You are both idiots.” 

The splashing ceased, and John squinted, trying to see the figure against the backlight of the porch, and then he grinned. 

“Hi, Sherlock. Care for a swim?” 

“That would be infinitely more appealing if you could say it without your teeth chattering so loudly.” 

“Come on, you big girl’s blouse,” said Greg. “It’s not so bad once you’re used to it. I’m quite toasty, really, how about you, John?” 

“Brilliant, really, we ought to do this tomorrow, too.” 

Sherlock crossed his arms and waited. 

“John,” said Greg, and grinned at John, who grinned right back. It really wasn’t so bad, in the water, and the thought of doing anything insane without Sherlock didn’t appeal in the slightest. 

“Absolutely,” said John, and they both stood up, grabbed Sherlock by the arms before the third man could run back to the safety of the house, and pulled him into the water with them. 

* 

Sherlock had thoughtfully gone to retrieve towels before joining them at the water’s edge, and they were piled by the porch steps, waiting for the three men as they struggled out of the water and back to the house. 

“I liked this shirt,” said Sherlock, his teeth chattering. 

“It’ll wash,” said John. He clutched his thin shirt around his arms, which was of no help providing warmth in the slightest. “Christ, I’m going to die of hypothermia.” 

“You’re lucky I left my mobile on the porch.” 

“That’s because you’re clever,” said Greg, grabbing a towel and handing it to John. John immediately wrapped himself in it. Sherlock turned to him and started to rub the towel briskly against John’s arms. “You knew we’d pull you in.” 

“It was likely, yes.” 

“Then why’d you come down to the water’s edge, if you didn’t want to join us?” 

“Who said I didn’t?” 

“Just didn’t have the guts to join us on your own,” said John, teeth chattering. 

“Inside,” said Sherlock firmly, and pulled John up the steps. 

“Oi,” said Greg. “ _I_ could use a little push too.” 

“John’s colder.” 

“I’m _older_. And it’s his fault we went in.” 

“If I jumped off a cliff, would you follow me?” asked John, and burst into giggles. 

Sherlock went back down the stairs and helped Greg up. Greg glanced at the table; the letter was gone. 

“Where—?” 

“Inside,” said Sherlock, by way of both explanation and order. He prodded both John and Greg into the house, and quickly shed his own dripping clothes, leaving them on the porch before wrapping himself in the last towel and joining them. 

“Tea,” moaned John, shivering under his towel, but Sherlock prodded them all past the kitchen and into the ground-floor bedroom, with its attached bathroom, and Greg managed to reach into the shower to start the water. 

“Christ, this is going to hurt,” he said, and dropped the towel on the floor. 

The hot water did sting, but only a little, and Greg sighed, despite the shivers that still wracked his body. The shower was incredibly fancy – one largish room, with two shower heads on the wall and one meant to mimic a rainstorm from overhead. Greg thought it would have been an extremely pleasant – and creative – place to be, if he and John weren’t nearly dead from hypothermia. 

“Ohhhhhh,” moaned John, stepping into the spray, with Sherlock right behind him. “That’s nice.” 

“Yes, warm water is highly preferable to a frigid bath in the sea,” said Sherlock, squeezing in behind him. “Shove over.” 

“No.” 

“You pulled me into the water _fully dressed_ , it’s my turn under the spray.” 

“You wanted it and you know it,” said John, and looked up at the overhead spray. “Who needs a shower this fancy?” 

“I do,” said Greg. 

“Mycroft undoubtedly has three,” sighed Sherlock. 

Greg glanced at him. “Does he really? Because if he does, I’m leaving you both for him.” 

“Please don’t mention my brother when we’re all naked.” 

“Yeah, but what about his shower?” 

“I have no idea.” 

“I am never leaving this shower,” said John. “You can bring me supper in here. And a bed.” 

“Who needs a bed, we have a wall,” said Sherlock. He started rubbing John’s arms again, trying to warm up his skin. 

“And someday, when I have blood back in my dick, I’ll take you up on that offer,” said Greg. 

John began to giggle. “Oh, Christ, we did that, didn’t we? We just ran naked into the sea.” 

“Full Monty,” said Greg. 

“In _October_.” 

“I still have to make dinner,” said Greg. “Oh, here, shove over, Sherlock. You get circulation back into me and I’ll work on John.” 

John giggled harder while the two men shuffled around. “This is not how I imagined us using the shower.” 

“We’ve got a few days left,” said Greg, sounding a bit more cheerful now that Sherlock’s hands were rubbing against his skin. “Though I could probably be persuaded to stay in here a little longer.” 

“You left the prawns on the counter.” 

“Christ, the prawns,” groaned Greg. 

“Stop being logical,” said John. 

“You pulled me into a bloody cold sea, forgive me for not liking you much at the moment,” said Sherlock. 

“All evidence to the contrary,” said Greg. 

“Sod off, Greg.” 

“My pleasure.” 

John giggled, and turned around to kiss Greg’s chest. 

They didn’t get out of the shower for a while after that. 

* 

John had run upstairs to find clean clothes, leaving Greg and Sherlock in the shower under the spray. 

“He wants us to make peace with each other,” said Greg from the side of the shower. 

Sherlock frowned and turned to switch on the rainforest. It thundered in the shower, and he had to shout to be heard over it. “I thought we did that.” 

“Did we?” asked Greg. “Because I don’t know that you’ve forgiven me.” 

Sherlock reached for the soap and began to work up a lather. His tone, when he finally spoke, was scathing. “This has nothing to do with me forgiving you. According to you, you’ve done nothing wrong.” 

Greg sighed. “Sherlock…” 

“I don’t care what people think of me,” said Sherlock, loudly enough that his voice echoed in the shower. He lowered it again, when Greg didn’t interfere. “I suppose I don’t care what they think of you, either, or of John, except in that their opinions of you are important to you. If your colleagues believe that we are committed to each other, or if you’re just in it for the fun – that doesn’t matter to me as much as the fact that I want them to at least acknowledge that I am a part of your life.” 

“You _are_ a part of my life, Sherlock. You’ve been a part of my life since the day I met you. No one disputes that.” 

“But my role has changed, irrevocably, in the last few months. I suppose – I want to know what you’re in it for.” 

“It?” 

“This. Us. Our triad.” 

“ _You_ ,” said Greg, vehemently. “I’m in it for you. And for John. I’m in it for both of you.” 

Sherlock ducked his head under the spray, not quite ready to believe him yet. The soap sluiced off his skin in waves. 

He heard Greg move through the water, but it still came as a shock when the flat of Greg’s hand rested on his spine, just between his shoulder blades. 

“Do you want to know why we pulled you in the water, Sherlock? Because being crazy isn’t fun if you’re not there with us. Ask John, he’ll say the same. I’m sorry if I can’t give you the reassurance you need. I can only give you my word that I love you and I’m here. If you want me.” 

Greg’s hand left his back, and Sherlock waited for the kiss that was sure to follow. But it didn’t; instead, he heard the click of the shower door open and close, and further away, the door to the adjoining bedroom open as Greg left the warmth of the bathroom. 

“Yes,” said Sherlock into the empty room, and his mouth filled with water as he spoke. 

* 

“I think the Roman fort tomorrow,” said John over the prawns, which had not been much harmed by sitting on the counter for an extra hour. 

“It’s supposed to rain.” 

“It was supposed to rain today, too,” John pointed out. “And did anyone miss the memo that we’re British and therefore impervious to rain?” 

“I don’t think that’s actually true,” said Greg. 

“Oh, right. If you’re French, you melt.” 

“I’m not French.” 

“Then explain your surname?” 

“Two or three centuries ago, maybe one bloke was French. I still think it’s going to rain tomorrow.” 

“Then if we wake up and it’s raining, we’ll go somewhere else. But if it’s not raining, I want to see the Roman fort.” 

“Sherlock? Roman fort tomorrow?” 

“Hmm?” Sherlock blinked, coming out of the reverie he’d been in. 

“Roman fort tomorrow.” 

“There cannot possibly be an actual Roman fort on this island.” 

“I think it’s a ruin and a reconstruction.” 

“Boring,” said Sherlock. “I’ll stay here and go through the attic.” 

“You will not,” said John firmly, using his fork to point a prawn at him. “The point of a holiday is to do things together.” 

“Like run naked into the sea.” 

“Exactly,” said John. “So tomorrow morning, Roman fort. Unless it’s raining, and then we’ll find something else, but we’re doing it _together_.” 

“Greg cooks by himself,” said Sherlock. 

“That’s because cooking in a well-stocked kitchen without you two berks underfoot _is_ a holiday,” said Greg. 

“I only have four days left to solve the murder,” said Sherlock. 

John groaned. “Sherlock—“ 

But Sherlock was already off. “Cecily Middlemass and Gerald Mortimer, childhood sweethearts, promised to each other before Gerald goes off to sea and his ship sinks. Everyone thinks he’s dead, including Cecily. Two years later she marries Thomas Kinton, who apparently also knew Gerald, and may or may not have been in contact with him the entire time. Three years after the ship sinks, a letter arrives for Thomas stating the exact day that Gerald will return to the island, but Thomas leaves for London anyway, and when he returns, Cecily is dead. Two days after her death, but five days after his original return date, Gerald turns up. You can’t honestly tell me that something about this story doesn’t bother you?” 

“Yes,” said John quietly. “It does bother me. It bothers me that Cecily was lied to for three years by two men who claimed to care for her. It bothers me that she had to learn the truth from a letter, and it bothers me that it all bothers me, because sodding hell, this case hits way too close to home for my comfort. I’ve forgiven you for lying to me for three years, Sherlock, but you let me be angry. You gave me the _space_ to be angry, and the fact that Cecily never even had the chance makes me angry all over again. You want to know why I ran into the sea? Because I needed to get my head out of some stupid ghost story and into reality, and that was the only way I could think to do it.” 

Sherlock stared at John, speechless. Greg reached over and held tight to John’s hand. 

“Hey,” he said, and John took a breath. 

“Roman fort tomorrow,” said John firmly. 

“John,” said Sherlock, breathless. “You’re a genius.” 

“Thank you,” said John. “Why?” 

“ _Ghost_ story. _That’s_ what’s been bothering me. I couldn’t – it’s the _ghost_ stories.” 

John and Greg glanced at each other. “Okay,” said Greg. “I’ll bite. What about the ghost stories?” 

“There are ghost stories for Gerald and Cecily,” said Sherlock. “The lover who wasn’t dead and the woman who died before his return. But we’re missing one – the husband who knew all along and made sure to be gone when it all happened. There’s a third ghost in this triangle. Where is Thomas?”


	5. Chapter 5

John spent half the night coughing, and the rest of it struggling with the blankets, which were twisted beyond all comprehension. 

Sherlock gave up on sleep somewhere near 2am, and spent the rest of the night in the attic, wrapped in a blanket, digging through the remainder of Cecily Kinton’s trunk in the hope of finding another clue. 

Greg wasn’t sure what time it was when he woke; the rain beat against the windowpanes, and the light that managed to filter in was grey and damp. The rain blended well with a particularly vicious round of coughs from John, and Greg’s eyes felt like golf balls in his head, scratchy and thick. John was shivering, and Greg made a sleepy attempt to tuck the blankets around him before trying to fall back to sleep, but when John coughed again, he gave up and pressed a kiss to John’s temple before slipping from the bed and rummaging for another blanket to throw over him. 

“What time is it?” mumbled John. 

“Time for you to sleep,” said Greg. “I’m going to fetch breakfast.” 

“Mmph.” 

Greg found a pair of pants and a t-shirt on the floor next to the bed and pulled them on. The air in the house was cold, but he didn’t intend to be out of bed for long – just some tea and maybe a few pieces of toast. From the hallway, he saw the light on in the attic and shook his head, knowing where Sherlock was. He went up the stairs just enough to see Sherlock sitting with his back to the trunk, chin resting on his chest and eyes closed. 

“Hey,” said Greg softly, and Sherlock’s eyes sprung open. 

“I’m awake.” 

“John’s cough keep you up?” 

“Among other things.” 

“I’m going to make some tea for him. D’you want any?” 

Sherlock snorted, which covered a range of responses from “Yes, of course, don’t be daft” to “Please don’t make me dignify that question with a response.” 

“Right then.” 

Greg jogged down to the kitchen, feeling every step in his joints. He supposed the pain was partially due to the cold dip in the sea last night, and glancing out the windows to the stormy morning, thought maybe a day in wouldn’t be amiss. 

Sherlock was back in the bedroom by the time Greg returned with the tray. John was still curled up under the blankets, and Sherlock was stretched out on the bed next to him, fingertips pressed together and resting on his chin, deep in thought. 

“John,” said Sherlock quietly when he saw Greg in the doorway. “Tea.” 

John’s eyes opened, quite predictably; John was never averse to tea, no matter his condition. Greg set the tray down on a nearby table and sat next to John on the bed. 

“Why’d you wake me up, it’s still dark out.” 

“That’s the weather. It’s close to eight.” Greg handed him a mug of tea. “I think we’ll stay in today.” 

“It’s just a cough,” protested John, and he breathed in the steam from the tea. 

“Nah, I wanted to make a roast anyway, and it’s the sort of day for it. You can sleep and kick whatever you’ve got brewing before it settles, and Sherlock can sit in the attic and solve a mystery.” 

“A day on our own?” asked Sherlock, perking up. 

“Don’t sound so pleased,” said Greg, amused. “I expect everyone back in time for dinner.” 

John blew on his tea and took a sip. “Do I at least get company in bed?” 

“Only if you’re good.” 

“That a challenge?” asked John, and his giggles turned into another set of coughs. 

Sherlock tapped his fingers together, still thinking. “If we aren’t doing anything today, I think I might go to the library.” 

Both men looked at him. “The _library_?” repeated John. 

“I need to do some research on Thomas Kinton, and there is a genealogical research center on the island. There isn’t much online about that time period, but I suspect the library may have the information I need.” 

“Great,” said Greg. “You can pick up some ibuprofen and cough drops for John while you’re out.” 

“I’m not sick,” protested John, and coughed again. 

“Of course not,” said Greg when John finished coughing. “You always hack up a lung before breakfast. Silly of me to forget that. Sherlock, do you want to eat before you go?” 

“Not particularly.” 

“He means yes,” said John. “If I have to stay in bed all day, you have to eat breakfast.” 

“There is no logic in that statement.” 

“Yes, there is,” said John. “There’s all sorts of logic. Scads of logic. Logic falling out all over.” 

Greg patted John’s knee. “I’m going to make breakfast and write up a shopping list for Sherlock.” 

“I don’t need a shopping list,” said Sherlock. 

“With pictures,” said Greg, and leaned over to kiss them both briefly on the lips before going back downstairs. 

John leaned over to slump against Sherlock and the bed’s headboard. “Stop sulking. You’re getting a whole day to wallow in casework. You’ll have the mystery solved by teatime.” 

“Records from that era are notoriously vague. I doubt there’s a biography of Thomas Kinton in existence. The fact that he is at best a shadowy figure in either of the ghost stories surrounding Cecily or Gerald makes me think that he may have had little presence in reality, as well.” 

John sighed and went quiet for a moment. “Sherlock?” 

“Hmm?” 

“Have you and Greg had a chance to—“ John faltered. 

“Yes,” said Sherlock. “We did.” 

“Then you’re all right?” 

Sherlock swung his legs off the bed, and reached for his dressing gown. “It’s nothing to do with you,” he said, fussing with the sleeves. “Greg and I are perfectly capable of discussing this matter ourselves.” 

“Wrong,” said John firmly. “It might be between you and Greg, but it affects me too, when you’re not talking and going into sulks and he’s hiding in the kitchen. I don’t want to get in the middle, and I’m not saying you have to forgive him—“ 

“Of course not,” said Sherlock, and he was bitter. “He’s not sorry. There is nothing to forgive.” 

John was quiet for a moment. “Is that what you think?” 

“It’s what he thinks.” 

“It’s hard to love you both when you’re busy hating one another.” 

Sherlock stilled. “I don’t hate Greg.” 

“No? Good. Then tell him that.” 

“I…I’ll try.” 

John nodded. “Thanks.” And then, a bit more light-hearted, clearly trying to let the matter drop: “So you’re going to find the ghost of Thomas Kinton? I thought you didn’t believe in the supernatural. Or maybe there really is a phantom hound running around Dartmoor?” 

Sherlock drummed his fingers together. “I forgot to pack my nicotine patches. Thomas Kinton is an acceptable substitute.” 

John giggled, coughing a little, and he wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s torso and held him tightly. “I love you, you daft bugger. You can buy more at the pharmacy.” 

Sherlock put an arm around John’s shoulders, and kissed the top of his head. “Use all the pillows. If you sleep sitting up you won’t cough so badly.” 

John smiled, well-used to hearing what wasn’t actually said. “I know.” 

* 

The Isle of Wight Record Office was in Newport, some 17 kilometers north of the house. Greg saw Sherlock off, his brow furrowed. The rain had abated somewhat, but the sky was still threatening more. 

"You do know how to drive?" he asked, and Sherlock gave him a withering look. "Mate, you live in London and you take taxis everywhere. It's not that ridiculous a question." 

"I can drive. I learned on roads not dissimilar to these," said Sherlock, kicking the tires on the car. "And I drove in Dartmoor, and John didn’t appear to be in fear for his life. The car, however, is lacking." 

“It’s a perfectly good car.” 

“For a hire, I suppose.” 

Greg frowned. "Just...be careful." 

"With myself or with the car?" 

"Both, preferably. And don't forget the shopping list. John should have something stronger than paracetamol, especially if the coughing doesn't abate." 

"Doctor, heal thyself," said Sherlock, and he sat behind the wheel. "I can text you hourly to keep you informed about the welfare of your precious vehicle." 

"Twat," said Greg fondly. "Try not to drive over a cliff while you're at it." 

Greg watched Sherlock climb into the car, and adjust the driver’s seat and the mirrors. When everything was to his satisfaction, he set his fingers on the keys, ready to start the engine, but paused. Greg saw the odd, concentrated, conflicted look on his face. 

“Sherlock?” 

“I…I will endeavor to be careful driving the car.” 

Greg stared at him. “Uh-huh.” 

“And will remember to pick up the shopping.” 

“Are you feeling all right, love?” 

Sherlock took a breath and tried again. “I would not wish to hamper the holiday you have meticulously planned for us.” 

Greg blinked. “Are…are you trying to _apologize_?” 

Sherlock jumped in the car seat. “No!” 

“Good, because that was rubbish.” 

“I’m _trying_ to—“ 

“Stop. I get it,” said Greg, holding up his hand. “Get out of here. I love you too.” 

The motor roared to life with what Greg could have sworn was extra vengeance, and Sherlock waved his fingers at Greg as he raced down the drive, a move clearly designed to raise Greg's blood pressure and not because he normally would. Greg shook his head and went back into the house, which was strangely silent, particularly after the commotion of the day before. 

The kitchen loomed, and Greg, for a moment, wished that he'd gone with Sherlock. He might have liked cooking, he might be looking forward to a good roast dinner with veg and potatoes and every trimming he never had time for in London - as well as the soothing comfort of spending the proper time making it all himself - but the thought of the work looming ahead of him was somewhat daunting all the same. 

Well. It was still early. Plenty of time to get started later. Greg ignored the kitchen and went up the stairs to find John, who might be sleeping, but wouldn't mind the company all the same. 

* 

If anything, Sherlock thought, he ought to be researching Gerald Mortimer, and what the man did after leaving the Isle of Wight. After all, if there was any person in the story who ought to resonate with him personally, it should have been Gerald. 

But it wasn’t. Thomas Kinton had been forgotten by the world in two different versions of the story surrounding Cecily Kinton’s death, and for some reason, this bothered Sherlock more than he could say. The world thought Thomas Kinton was unimportant at best, and the one thing standing between the true love of Cecily and Gerald at worst. Both theories were incorrect, because Thomas was important. Sherlock just didn’t know why. 

Well. That wasn’t true. Sherlock knew why Thomas was important. Without Thomas keeping Cecily and Gerald apart, there wouldn’t have been a story. 

No, not apart. Providing narrative tension. Yes, that was it. Thomas provided the narrative tension – _married to another man, who left for London_ – without Thomas, Gerald and Cecily would have gone off and never provided ghosts to haunt beaches or cemeteries. 

Which made Thomas the most important point of the story of all, and Sherlock thought the world was full of idiots if they couldn’t recognize that fact. Without Thomas, the story wasn’t worth telling. 

Find Thomas Kinton, and Sherlock would find Thomas Kinton’s ghost. Find Thomas’s ghost, and Sherlock would find Cecily’s murderer. 

The Record Office was small but comfortable, and Sherlock signed in without much fuss. The staff was clearly well used to visitors looking into old records, though Sherlock doubted many of them had been ghost hunting. His mouth quirked at the thought – he didn’t even believe in ghosts, but here he was, trying to track one down. There was an empty table near the windows overlooking the harbor, and Sherlock set his things down before going to fetch the books he wanted to browse. 

Some hours later, he wasn’t much closer to finding Thomas Kinton than when he’d begun. For a member of the police force, he’d been remarkably boring. Lestrade’s photograph was in the newspaper with every case he solved, but Kinton seemed to stay out of the limelight, particularly following the events of his wife’s murder. Before Cecily’s death, Kinton had been in the paper at least once a fortnight; after, he appeared exactly twice: once with the mention of her death, and once about a year later, with a notice looking for a housekeeper. 

Sherlock shoved his notebooks away, frustrated and a little disgusted. Thomas wasn’t Lestrade. Of course he shouldn’t expect him to appear in the newspaper with every case solved. For all he knew, Thomas wasn’t even the type of officer who left his desk. 

“Frustrating, isn’t it?” remarked the woman at the table nearby. “Not finding what you’re looking for, even when you know it’s there.” 

Sherlock glanced over at her. Dark hair cut short, rather inexpertly, jeans and trainers, American accent. Hadn’t been in England long; her tan hadn’t faded just yet. But she was over the jet-lag, surely, her voice was remarkably chipper for just before noon. “A bit,” he acknowledged. 

She reached over and stretched out her hand. “Anna. Genealogy is a kick of mine. Who’re you looking for? My mom’s whole family is from these parts. Maybe we’re related.” 

Sherlock took her hand with a quick shake of his head. “I’m doing a bit of research into the origins of ghost stories.” 

“Ooo,” said Anna, her eyes lighting up. “This place is full of them, we were in one of the pubs last night and the locals couldn’t stop talking about them. I was so scared I didn’t want to walk back to the hotel. Are you a ghost hunter?” 

“No,” said Sherlock. “I’m a consulting detective, but…I’m on holiday this week.” 

Anna laughed. “Sounds like a fun holiday. I’m on vacation myself. My co-workers think I’m insane, wanting to spend it inside doing research. They don’t understand.” 

“No,” said Sherlock, almost liking her. “People generally don’t.” 

“That’s the problem with genealogy,” said Anna. “No one’s ever where you think they are. I mean, you expect your ancestors stayed in exactly the same place, born, married, died, all nice and neat, with all the records to match, but sometimes records are destroyed in fires or floods, or people move and don’t leave records, and you could be looking in one place when you really ought to be looking in another entirely. Such a ridiculous hobby, really. I don’t suppose ghost hunting is much different.” 

Sherlock stared at Anna. “Of course!” 

“Sorry,” said Anna, eyes wide. “I didn’t mean that in a bad way.“ 

Sherlock stood and put his notebook in his pocket. His heart was pounding and his blood rushed through his veins – he could feel every synapse in his mind snapping and sparking. 

“I didn’t take it in one,” said Sherlock firmly. “And you are absolutely correct. Thank you.” 

“All right,” said Anna, smiling a little now, but obviously confused. “Hope the rest of your vacation is good.” 

Sherlock grinned at her as he left the room. “Oh, it will be.” 

* 

There was a bell on the door, and its cheerful ring told Sherlock absolutely everything he needed to know about how to go about what he needed to do. 

“Hello, sir, welcome to Home Away From Home,” said the cheerful woman at the front desk. Blonde highlights, contact lenses, a scone too many at tea for far too many years, and a cat. Two cats. Rather old, well-cared-for jewelry. Perfect. “How can I be of assistance?” 

“Hi, yes, we’re renting one of your properties,” Sherlock started, his voice upbeat and bubbly. “Lovely house, we’re all quite in love with it, out on the water on Groom’s Cottage?” 

“Oh, the Kinton house!” said the woman, quite delighted. “Yes, it’s lovely, isn’t it? Are you Mr. Lestrade?” 

“Holmes,” said Sherlock. 

“Ah, the boyfriend,” said the woman, pleased as punch. Sherlock tried not to blink in surprise. Greg had actually named _him_ as his boyfriend when making the reservations? Him, and not John? If Sherlock’s smile was perhaps a bit more genuine than it had been before, the woman didn’t remark on it. “So glad you like the house. I’ll make sure to tell the owners.” 

“I don’t suppose – quite forward of me, of course – that they’re the least bit interested in…selling?” 

The woman laughed. “Oh, no, the house has been part of the Kinton family for years. I don’t think it’s ever been out of their hands, honestly. Such a lot of history tied up in that house.” 

“Didn’t think so, but had to ask.” 

“And then there’s the family ghost, old Thomas’s first wife. You’ve read about Cecily, of course?” 

Sherlock’s ears pricked. “Yes, but I wasn’t aware that he married again.” 

“Oh, yes, in 1908. Only married ten years; he died with the Spanish flu. So sad. I’m rather surprised you didn’t know this – it should all be in the history we left in your welcome packet.” 

“I didn’t realize there was a welcome packet,” said Sherlock. “There’s a history?” 

“Let me—“ The woman turned to a filing cabinet behind her and rifled through it for a moment before pulling out a sheet of paper. “Ah, here it is – a history of the house and some of its more notable occupants. This should tell you everything you’d want to know about Thomas and his children; we’ve left off the more recent generations for their own privacy, of course.” 

“Of course,” said Sherlock, scanning the paper. “Bit funny, isn’t it? That the family ghost wasn’t part of the family all that long. I’d have thought that Thomas would be the one doing the haunting.” 

“If he does, no one’s ever mentioned it,” said the woman. “But Cecily died so long before he did, I expect he’d forgotten all about her by then.” 

Sherlock wondered if Greg would forget about his ex-wife in time. He doubted it. 

“Go on, take it,” said the woman, waving her hand. “I can always print out more. And we’ll see you and your other half at the pub tomorrow night, yes?” 

“Pub?” asked Sherlock, looking up from the paper. 

“Oh, dear,” said the woman, eyes wide. “That was meant to be a surprise. Pretend I said nothing. My lips are sealed. Don’t give it away now.” 

“I won’t,” promised Sherlock. 

“Have a good day now,” said the woman cheerfully. 

“The same,” said Sherlock, pushing out of the Home Away From Home office. He was so engrossed in the information sheet that he walked right by the pharmacy and had to double-back, twice. 

* 

Greg started the roast shortly before lunch, and he whistled as he washed and chopped the vegetables, cleaned the gristle from the meat, and carefully placed everything in the roasting pan with a few fresh herbs before up-ending a bottle of Burgundy over the lot. John, wrapped in a blanket and looking vaguely miserable, watched from the stool in the corner of the kitchen. 

"Think he'll forget the shopping?" 

"Nah," said Greg, covering the roasting pan with foil. "Well, maybe. But he'd remember at the edge of the drive and turn around to get it, so it's not like we'd know." 

John huffed softly, amused. "Not quite the holiday I envisioned." 

"Nothing ever is," said Greg. 

John watched Greg crimp the foil around the edge of the pan. “What happened last week—“ 

Greg paused, tense. 

“You need to apologize.” 

Greg looked up at John. “ _I_ need to apologize? He’s the one who stole my warrant cards. _Plural_.” 

“And he had my gun. I know.” 

“He thinks _I_ need to apologize?” 

“No,” said John. “I do.” 

“You—“ 

John coughed, and Greg waited for him to finish. “He doesn’t think you’re sorry he was arrested.” John waited, but Greg didn’t say anything. “Are you?” 

“Of course I’m sorry he was arrested,” snapped Greg. “I’m sorry he stole my warrant cards and your gun, too, and I’m sorry he was caught, and I’m sorry they put him in handcuffs and it took me four hours to get him out. I’m sorry about the entire bloody mess. But it’s _not. My. Fault_.” 

“I don’t think he cares about whose fault it is. I think he just wants to know you wish it hadn’t happened.” 

“I told him that.” 

“He didn’t hear it.” 

“He never hears it,” said Greg angrily, and he threw the roll of tinfoil back in the drawer. “I tell him I love him, I want him, I’m glad he’s part of this, and he keeps brooding on and second guessing everything we’ve tried to do. I half think he’s sorry he came home at all, sometimes.” 

“Greg—“ 

“No, I don’t wish that,” said Greg with a sigh, and ran his hand through his hair. “You know I don’t.” 

John didn’t say anything; he just tried to hold back the cough coming up. Greg saw, and went to start the kettle again. “What about you?” 

“Don’t be stupid,” said John through the cough, and Greg’s mouth quirked. He found the mugs and started to assemble them for tea. “He might be a genius, but he’s downright stupid when it comes to anything approximating personal relationships.” 

“Sometimes I think he takes his ‘high-functioning sociopath’ self-diagnosis too seriously,” said Greg. 

“Load of rubbish.” 

“He forgets that.” Greg smiled at John, who smiled back. The kettle began to whistle, and Greg poured out the tea, adding milk and sugar in the preferred quantities, and brought John’s mug over. 

“Cheers,” said John, and wrapped his hands around the mug. He breathed in the steam. 

“Spell it out for him, is that it?” asked Greg. 

“Yes,” said John. 

“And you think that’s what he wants to hear?” asked Greg wryly. 

John glanced up at him. “If it wasn’t, I don’t think he’d be here.” 

Greg sighed. “A year ago, it was supposed to be just us.” 

“Do you wish it was?” 

“No.” Greg glanced out the windows. “It was easier, though.” 

“Easy is boring,” said John, and when Greg caught his eye, he grinned. “Bugger easy.” 

Greg grinned. "Better, though? Except for the cold." 

"It's not a cold. It's a cough." 

"John, you can't breathe when you're lying down and your eyes are red." 

"Wanker," said John, and coughed again. Greg shook his head with a smile and slid the roasting pan into the oven. The front door slammed in time with the oven door closing. 

"GREGORY!" Sherlock's voice echoed in the house. 

"Christ, Sherlock," Greg called in response. "John could have been sleeping, you know." 

Sherlock appeared in the doorway. "No, he couldn't have. Because he's sitting in the kitchen." 

"You didn't know that before you came in," said Greg, annoyed. "And don't tell me you figured it out based on the position of the window shades." 

"All right then, I won't," said Sherlock. "Thomas Kinton was never in London. Well, that's not quite true. He was in London, eventually, but not in 1895. He didn't go to London until 1907, and that was the first time he'd been there." 

"But the newspaper accounts said he'd been in London when Cecily was murdered," said John. 

"Go back to bed," Sherlock told John, throwing a box of Lemsip tablets at him. 

"I'm fine," protested John. "Just a cough." 

"No, it's not," said Sherlock and Greg simultaneously, and John glared at them both. 

"How do you know?" Greg asked Sherlock. "About London." 

"The letting agent’s offices are next to the shops," said Sherlock. "I popped in and asked for more information about the house and its history. A few well-placed compliments and I had the entire life story of Thomas Kinton and his progeny." 

"Progeny?" asked John. "He and Cecily weren't married long enough for kids." 

"He remarried in 1908, to a girl he'd met in London the previous year. The story went that he became lost while walking about and she showed him the way." 

"That doesn't mean he'd never been to London before," Greg pointed out. "Lots of people get lost in London every day." 

"Yes, except Thomas Kinton apparently found himself lost around the corner from his hotel," said Sherlock. "Either Kinton had an abysmally bad sense of direction, or he had never been in London previously. And it's worth noting that his hotel was across the street from St. Paul's." 

"All right, you have a point. So if Thomas Kinton wasn't in London when Cecily was murdered, where was he?" asked Greg. 

"Here," said Sherlock. "He knew that Gerald intended to call, and whether Gerald was considered a friend or an enemy, it makes no sense for Thomas to leave the area. Not on purpose, at any rate - I suspect he may have told his neighbors, friends, and even his wife that he would be in London, and then simply waited in secret for Gerald to appear." 

"And catch Cecily and Gerald in...well, whatever act they decided to perform?" asked Greg. "That's pretty despicable." 

"But if he was here the entire time, he’d know how Cecily died, and more importantly, who killed her,” John pointed out. “So why not come forward? Unless he had good reason to keep lying.” 

Greg frowned, tapping his fingers on the counter. "Gerald kept up the lie, too. He came back five days earlier than the newspaper accounts - so both of them were lying about their whereabouts when Cecily was killed." 

"Exactly," said Sherlock. He frowned. "This would be much easier if I could see the body." 

"The _body_ is a pile of bones in the cemetery," John pointed out. "And don't you even think for a _minute_ that we're going to dig it up under dark of night." 

"Don't be ridiculous, John," said Sherlock impatiently. "With the proper permits we could do it in daylight." 

"No!" chorused Greg and John, and Sherlock began to pout. 

"You're clever enough," said Greg. "Figure it out without the body. You've certainly managed it before." 

"Yes, but I had other clues to examine. All the other clues in this case have been wiped away with a hundred years of redecoration." 

"And look how well you've done so far," said John. 

Sherlock waved his hand. "Conjecture. I've no way to confirm any of this." 

"Hundred year old case and _now_ you worry about burden of proof?" asked Greg dryly. "Anyone left in this kitchen in the next minute is going to help me with the washing up." 

John slid off the stool and coughed pointedly. Sherlock gamely put an arm around him. 

"John, you should be in bed." 

John coughed again, and managed to sound pitiful doing it. Sherlock led him out of the kitchen, head held high. 

Greg laughed, and shook his head. "Morons," he said fondly.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I started researching the Isle of Wight before writing this fic, I learned that there’s a band from the area called The Bees. And I knew without a doubt that I’d be writing the pub scene that happens in this chapter. Their song, [Silver Line](http://youtu.be/vsVR3mSKhJk), became my background music for writing most of the story, but I’ve also borrowed from their songs [I Really Need Love](http://youtu.be/WhOSWsgx6g0) and [These are the Ghosts](http://youtu.be/Qre_vgRYKU0).

The next day dawned clear, which was a nice change of pace. John woke, sandwiched between Greg and Sherlock, and was pleasantly surprised to discover that he didn’t feel half as awful as the day before, and his cough had abated considerably. He thought about trying to get out of the bed, but didn’t particularly want to dislodge either of his bedmates, and so he stayed between them. 

Ridiculous, the way he always ended up in the middle of the bed. In the middle of an argument, in the middle of a conversation, in the middle of the entire relationship, really. John didn’t like to be boxed in, yet here he was, a lover on either side, unable to get out of the bed. Sometimes John wondered at what point he’d signed up to be a buffer between Greg and Sherlock. 

John sighed, remembering the thunder in Sherlock’s eyes when he’d finally come home after the arrest, and the noise from the violin as he worked out the fire in his blood. It would have been better if Sherlock had shouted. Greg had tried to shout, but shouting against a man who refused to do anything but play angrily on his violin didn’t get an argument very far. 

When Sherlock finally crept into bed the following morning, eyes bloodshot and limbs shaking, John had wrapped himself around him and held him until Sherlock had fallen asleep, and for a little while, he’d just been relieved that even if Sherlock and Greg were broken, at least Sherlock still had him. 

Knowing that Greg and Sherlock had made up – or close to – was more of a relief than John had anticipated. He hadn’t realized how much he wanted the triad until he nearly didn’t have it anymore. 

All the same, John couldn’t shake the feeling in the back of his heart, the one that was bleating a warning to tread carefully, that the ground was unstable, that something was about to give way. John had twenty lifetimes over in Afghanistan in which he’d spent time testing the waters and being cautious. He’d hoped to be free of that back at home. 

It wasn’t long before Sherlock began to stir – John was surprised the man had been in the bed at all. Sherlock shifted once, twisted in the sheets, and then began to blink in the morning sun. John moved, just enough to let him know he was awake, before reaching over to brush his fingers against Sherlock’s hair. 

“Hey,” he said softly, not wanting to wake Greg. 

Sherlock swallowed and stretched. “What time is it?” he asked, voice hoarse with sleep. 

“Can’t see a clock,” said John. “But the sun’s up. Deduce it.” 

Sherlock snorted softly, and turned his head. “Eight. Greg’s asleep.” 

“No, I’m not,” said Greg. “What with you two having a bloody conversation over there.” 

John grinned and rolled a little to look at him. “Good morning, sunshine.” 

“Sodding hell,” muttered Greg, and covered his head with a pillow. “You’re feeling better.” 

“I am.” 

“I liked you better when you were sick and not a morning person,” grumbled Greg. 

“Roman fort today,” said John firmly, and Greg moaned. 

“I didn’t find Thomas’s ghost story,” said Sherlock. 

“Maybe he haunts the Roman forts,” said John, and he sat up, stretching his arms above him. “I feel like I’ve slept an entire day.” 

“You _did_ sleep an entire day.” 

“All the better to climb over Roman ruins, then,” said John cheerfully. 

“I’m arresting you when we get back to London,” said Greg into the pillow. “It’s a crime to be this cheerful this early in the morning.” 

John crawled out of bed. “I’ll bring you back some coffee,” he promised, dropping a kiss on Greg’s lips. 

“You better.” 

John left the room, whistling as he wrapped Sherlock’s robe around him. Coffee for Greg, tea for himself, maybe a scone if there were any left. 

“Greg!” he called back. “Are there scones?” 

Greg had been trying to go back to sleep, and groaned into the pillow. “On the counter, you’ll find them,” he called back, and listened to John’s whistling fade. 

“I’m missing a piece,” said Sherlock to the ceiling, and Greg lifted the pillow enough to look at him. 

“You’re still going on about Thomas, aren’t you?” 

“There’s a clue, and I’m _missing_ it.” 

Greg rolled to his side, dropped the pillow behind him, and propped his head up on his hand. “You know you’ve already got further than anyone else in figuring out what happened that night. According to the papers, it was a random burglary that’s been sitting cold for the last hundred years. No one even suspected Thomas or Gerald of being on the island when it happened.” 

“Buffoons.” 

“Ask me, it’s a cover-up,” said Greg. 

“Of course it’s a cover-up,” said Sherlock, wretchedly. “It _stinks_ of cover-up. The wife of a police officer is shot in her bed and it’s written off as a simple burglary? When _nothing_ of importance was stolen?” 

“So the question is – what was being covered up?” asked Greg. “Other than Thomas and Gerald lying to Cecily for all those years. And if Cecily was still dead, why perpetuate the lie?” 

Sherlock stilled. “You don’t suppose…” 

Greg snorted. “That Gerald and Thomas were lovers? If they were, you’ll never know. They would have been arrested if it’d got out, so you can bet they kept _that_ secret under lock and key. And anyway, no, I don’t think so. You can’t look at two men keeping secrets and automatically assume they’re shagging. Trust me, I see a lot of men who keep secrets, and being gay isn’t a prerequisite.” 

Sherlock pressed his fingertips together. “I need a fag.” 

“You bought a box of patches yesterday, didn’t you?” 

“John hid them.” 

“Shite,” said Greg, and rolled to his back. “Let’s bugger him senseless to teach him a lesson.” 

Sherlock made a deep, annoyed noise. “I should have brought my violin.” 

“Downstairs on the dining room table.” Sherlock glanced at Greg sharply, and Greg smiled. “Oh, come on, you really think I was going to let that stay behind in Baker Street? Holiday or not, you’d have driven John and me both round the bend if you didn’t have at least _one_ of your vices.” 

“You…brought my violin.” 

“Of course I did, you tosser. Know you, don’t I?” 

Sherlock reached over, and holding Greg’s face firmly in one hand, kissed him squarely and well on the lips. 

“Thank you,” he said, so grateful that Greg blinked to make sure he was seeing Sherlock and not John. 

“Sherlock—“ he started, and put his hand on the younger man’s arm. “Last week.” 

“It’s nothing,” said Sherlock, and slipped out from Greg’s hand. 

“I’m sorry,” said Greg, and the words hung in the air for a moment. “I wish it hadn’t happened. I should have said something. I should have stopped them.” 

Sherlock let out a breath, and then leaned back down for a longer, gentler, quieter kiss, lips on lips, almost an apology. 

“I don’t hate you.” 

“I never thought you did.” 

“John believed it was important to clarify.” 

“You don’t always do what John tells you,” said Greg, and grinned at the echo in the words. 

“Only the important things,” said Sherlock, so serious that Greg’s cheeky grin slid into a soft, seductive smile. 

“Don’t suppose I can convince you to stay in bed longer?” he asked, but Sherlock had already swung his legs out and was pulling on a pair of pajama trousers. 

“John’s coming back with coffee, and he still needs a lesson about nicotine patches,” said Sherlock. 

“He can wait his turn,” said Greg, and pulled Sherlock down for another kiss. 

* 

The Roman Villa Museum was fascinating. For Greg and John, at least, who enjoyed themselves hugely and made rude comments about the mosaics, giggling together like schoolboys. Sherlock had a fairly good time explaining why the posted commentary was incorrect, which elicited the predictable comment from John about how the Roman era was saved but the solar system was deleted. It ended with Sherlock leaving the two presumably grown men in a huff, and going outside to sulk in private. 

John came out to find him after a little while. “Aren’t you cold?” 

“No,” said Sherlock, bundled in his coat. 

“Right then. Come on, there’s a café and I’m hungry.” 

“Where’s Greg?” asked Sherlock, getting to his feet. 

“In the bookshop, there’s apparently a Roman recipe book for sale.” 

“Pigeons for supper,” said Sherlock glumly, and John laughed. 

“Christ, I hope not.” 

John looked up at Sherlock, his eyes creased in thought. 

“What?” asked Sherlock, when John didn’t move toward the doors. 

“Nothing,” said John, and smiled. “You. I love you.” 

Sherlock shifted from one foot to the other. “You know the feeling is mutual, but—“ 

John laughed, and took Sherlock by the hand. “Thank you for talking to Greg.” 

“How do you know we talked?” 

“I’ve lived with you, you tosser, I think I’ve learned a thing or two. Come on, Greg’s waiting.” 

Greg met them at the table, and dropped a book onto Sherlock’s lap. “Here you are, love, I bought you a present since you’ve been in such a fantastic mood today.” 

Sherlock picked up the book and gave it a cursory glare. “A Cabinet of Roman Curiosities: Strange Tales and Surprising Facts from the World’s Greatest Empire.” 

“Thought you’d enjoy telling us how it’s all wrong on the way home,” explained Greg. 

“Did you buy the recipe book?” asked John. 

“Yes, might try one of them tomorrow.” 

“Pigeon,” said Sherlock, already nose-deep in his book. He scoffed, evidently delightfully disgusted with something in it, and turned a page. 

“Lamb, actually.” Greg reached over and took a bite of John’s cake. “Right then, that’s the tourist bit for the morning. Sherlock, what do you need this afternoon to solve the murder?” 

Sherlock looked up from his book. “Hmm?” 

“That was the deal. Tourists in the morning, crime-solvers in the afternoon,” said Greg. He tried to reach for another bite of John’s cake, but John was too quick and blocked the attempt. “As long as we’re not tromping around cemeteries, I’m game.” 

“No cemeteries,” said Sherlock. “I need to think some more.” 

“Well, that’s two days off in a row,” said Greg. “Nice holiday, eh, John?” 

“Stop stealing my cake and buy your own,” said John. 

“Stolen cake tastes better.” 

“Fine then. Buy your own and I’ll steal _it_.” 

Sherlock spared them a glance and went back to his book. “If you’re bored, you could always research the ghosts of the island. There are enough to keep us all busy for weeks.” 

“The woman at the letting office said Thomas didn’t have a ghost,” said John. 

“She also owns _cats_ ,” said Sherlock dismissively. 

Greg rolled his eyes. “So does Molly, and she’s usually right about how someone died.” 

Neither John nor Greg were surprised when Sherlock put his nose back into the book, and with a grin, Greg went to buy John another slice of cake to steal. 

Sherlock watched his lovers out of the corner of his eye, and noted their obvious comfort and joy in each other – and, he had to admit, in him. Two days in which neither of them had anything to do with solving a murder, in which they were able to simply sit or sleep or _be_ , alone or together, and they were acting as if they had no cares in the world except for those sitting at the table. The lines that normally formed on Greg’s forehead were gone, and the dark shadows that haunted John’s eyes were likewise absent. 

It might have been the fresh sea air. It might have been the way they fought over the cake. It might have been that morning’s bedroom activities, or that he and Greg had talked, and were settled. It might have been anything. 

It might, thought Sherlock, with some surprise, have even been that they were really and truly happy. Relaxed. Carefree. 

Perhaps, thought Sherlock, a holiday wasn’t such a bad thing after all. Hundred-year-old murders notwithstanding, of course. 

* 

The afternoon passed too quickly. Sherlock played his violin, every so often marking notes on the sheet paper that Greg had thoughtfully included in one of his bags. John skimmed through one of the books on ghost stories, marking the ones he thought notable, but largely disregarding the majority. Greg, unable to keep still, went in turns of shouting incomprehensibly at Sky Sports on the telly in the back room, attempting to seduce John, or attempting to seduce Sherlock. He was very good at the first, fairly successful at the second, and not at all successful at the last. 

“I give up,” Greg said finally, after his third attempt at seducing Sherlock away from the violin was deemed a dismal failure. “I’m going for a shower. The taxi will be here in an hour and a half.” 

Sherlock looked up at that. “A taxi?” 

“Oh, _that_ gets your attention, does it? Yes, a taxi.” 

“We have a car.” 

“No, _I_ have a car. And I fully intend to finish the night somewhat pissed, so I’m not driving.” 

Sherlock frowned, and then remembered the earlier conversation at the letting office. “We’re going to a pub.” 

“Oh, good,” said Greg. “I thought we’d have more trouble getting you to agree to go along.” 

“I haven’t agreed to anything, and I dislike pubs.” 

John lifted up the ghost book. “If you don’t come with us, I’m burning the book.” 

“There’s no need to be drastic about it.” 

“Are you going to come along quietly?” asked Greg. 

“If you insist.” 

“I do.” 

“Then I will. Dramatics are not necessary.” 

John snorted from the sofa, and Sherlock went back to his music for about three bars. 

“John—“ 

“Yes,” said John firmly. “You have to go. And I’m not telling you why, and yes, it has everything to do with the surprise we’ve got cooked up, so chin up, lie back, and think of England.” 

Sherlock snorted, and went back to his music. A surprise. At a pub. For him. Sherlock couldn’t remember the last time he was well and truly surprised, and in a way, he almost looked forward to the experience. If he played Wagner a little bit brighter than Wagner was meant to be played…well, he’d just blame it on the weather. 

* 

The pub was crowded, but there was a table waiting for them in the corner. John had an attack of the giggles the moment they arrived, unable to keep the grin off his face, and Greg had to keep kicking him lightly under the table lest he just burst out with the secret. 

“He’ll find out soon enough,” said John. 

“Yes, well, I want to see his face,” said Greg, trying to balance three pints in his hands. 

Sherlock looked around the pub. “Please tell me that Mycroft is not going to perform for us.” 

John sputtered into his beer, coughing, and Greg slapped him hard on the back. 

“No, it’s not Mycroft performing,” said Greg. “And how’d you know it was a performance?” 

“There’s a stage, with instruments in the corner; I saw them as we came in. No respectable band would leave their instruments in a pub when they’re not playing, and judging from the amount of money the drum set cost, we are dealing with a very respectable band.” 

“Excellent deduction,” said Greg. “I think that deserves a drink.” 

John burst into giggles again. “Oh, no. I’m not playing that game with him sitting here.” 

Sherlock gave John a look. “Am I a _drinking_ game?” 

“Bit hard to turn you into a drinking game when you never come to the pub with us,” said Greg. 

“We have to keep tabs during investigations,” said John. “It’s a pain in the arse, honestly.” 

“Is that why you came back to the flat so pissed you could barely stand after we arrested the man with the lazy eye?” demanded Sherlock. 

“Might be,” said John. 

There was a shout from the crowd as a group of seven men took to the stage. They were dressed casually, about half of them with baseball caps, and they grinned and waved to the crowd. Sherlock glanced at Greg and John, curious what was planned. 

“Hello,” said the frontman into the microphone. “I’m Paul Butler, and we’re The Bees.” 

Sherlock looked at Greg and John again, one eyebrow up, as the band began to play a somewhat up-tempo, cheerful song. They looked back at him with grins on their faces. 

“It’s a band,” he said. “Of Bees.” 

“Well, that’s what they’re called in the States,” said Greg cheerfully. “Here, they’re just The Bees.” 

“You said a proper holiday would involve a trip to an apiary,” explained John. “This is the next best thing, we figured.” 

“There’s a few apiaries on the island,” added Greg. “And I’ve already contacted the owners, if you want to go tomorrow and look around, ask questions.” 

“The local society offers a beekeeping course, but it’s six weeks long,” said John. “Didn’t think we stood any chance of getting you down here for that length of time.” 

Sherlock couldn’t do anything other than stare at the two of them, sitting side by side and looking expectant. They had planned this, the two of them, during the nights and days he’d been distracted, in the small moments when he wasn’t there. 

“Sherlock?” asked John. “Are you all right?” 

“Well?” prodded Greg. “Say something!” 

Sherlock opened his mouth, and closed it again. He glanced up at the band playing energetically on the stage. A band of bees, or at least a band _named_ for bees, and Sherlock tried to remember if he’d ever expressed his interest in bees before to either of them. He must have. At some point. He couldn’t remember. But _they_ had. 

“I…” 

John lifted his pint to Greg, who clinked it with his own. 

“You owe me ten quid,” said John, satisfied. 

“I thought we bet blow jobs.” 

“Whatever works for you.” 

“You bet on me?” asked Sherlock, finding his voice. 

“I thought you’d make some comment about the atrocity of the band,” said Greg. 

“I _like_ the band,” said John. 

“You like the Spice Girls.” 

“I didn’t know they were the _Spice_ Girls when you played that song. And anyway, I showed you the clips on YouTube and you said they were a bit of all right. Exact words.” 

“Gentlemen,” said Sherlock. “If you don’t mind, your argument is louder than the music.” 

John grinned. “In that case, I’ll get the next round.” 

He hopped up and went to the bar, and Greg leaned over to Sherlock. 

“I didn’t think you liked this kind of music.” 

He didn’t, not really. But John and Greg did, and they said they loved him, wanted him, and weren’t interested in doing anything unless he was part of it. Holidays, swimming in the October sea, even a trip to an apiary the next day. The words from the song echoed as half the pub, clearly knowing them by heart, sang along. 

_You know that you love me when every step’s a yes_

“I don’t,” said Sherlock, because it wasn’t as if the _music_ mattered in the least, and turned to listen properly. 

* 

It was some time later when Sherlock left the table, anxious for a little bit of quiet. The band had proved to be more versatile than the bubble-gum pop first song had indicated, and he found himself actually enjoying the blues- and jazz-inspired pieces, as well as some of the covers, that they’d played. And regardless, every time he thought about the two men sitting near him, watching YouTube videos and contacting apiaries on his behalf, he forgot the annoyingly bouncy music, and smiled. 

But now, in the back corridor leading to the lavatories, the loudness of the music was dulled, and Sherlock rested against the wall, exhaling. His mind was racing, spinning in circles to a beat he didn’t particularly care for even on the best of days. Without Greg or John nearby, he thought he could feel the start of a headache, brought on by the beer and the pounding music and even the heavy smoke in the pub, which clearly had never heard of such a thing as non-smoking laws. Or perhaps they just didn’t care. 

The song ended, and it was blissfully quiet for a moment, before the next one began. Sherlock closed his eyes, and hit his head gently against the wall. The thrum soothed his headache a little, and he beat in time with the music, almost unconsciously. When at last he found a comfortable rhythm, and the headache felt nearly manageable, he opened his eyes, and found himself staring at the portrait hanging on the wall opposite him. 

A man, dressed in clothes that recalled the turn of the last century. A handlebar moustache, young but not exactly lithe, hair a bit on the thinner side but still present. The man had a somber, almost sad expression on his face, a bit like he was asking the viewer for forgiveness. He held a shotgun cradled in his arm, and on the nearby table, several rounds spilled out of a box, along with a lace handkerchief, a letter, and a vase of chrysanthemums. 

Sherlock stared at the portrait, and his eyes darted to the bottom of the frame. When he read the nameplate, his heart jumped into his throat. 

_Thomas Kinton, 1901_

Five minutes later, Greg and John had been dragged from their pints and the shared plate of chips to stare at the portrait with him. 

“Thomas Kinton,” said John. “Not how I’d pictured him.” 

“They never are,” said Greg, arms folded. “Well, that…doesn’t help.” He glanced at Sherlock, who was giving him a look. “All right then, tell me what I’m missing.” 

“Well, he’s carrying a gun,” said John. “I’d think it would be obvious.” 

“That Thomas shot Cecily?” asked Sherlock. 

“Yeah.” 

“Why would Thomas shoot Cecily? Maybe Gerald used one of his guns,” said Greg. 

“Thomas was a gun enthusiast,” said Sherlock. “He would have had them on display, but not loaded. Unless Gerald had knowledge of firearms, he would not have been able to load one and use it on Cecily without giving her time to make her escape. And remember, Thomas was there – he would have been able to stop Gerald before that occurred. Look at the items on the table next to Thomas – they were chosen for a specific reason.” 

“A lace handkerchief – had to be Cecily’s,” said John. “He didn’t marry again until seven years after this portrait was done.” 

“The bullets don’t match the shotgun,” said Greg, looking closer. “They’re for a pistol, you can tell by the length.” 

“The letter is from Gerald,” said Sherlock. “The words are unintelligible, but the length and the paragraph breaks are the same as the one we found in the attic.” 

John sucked in his breath. “That’s the murder. The whole murder is right there on the table.” 

The three men fell silent for a moment. 

“Chrysanthemums are a symbol of grief and regret,” said Sherlock softly. “The lace handkerchief, the letter, the bullets – the fact that Thomas cradles a gun in his arms, and the sorrowful expression asking for forgiveness. I think perhaps you were right, John. You’ve been right all along. It was Thomas who shot Cecily, although given the clues in his portrait, I would deduce that it was most likely an accident. He immortalized his confession in a portrait that doesn’t hang in his house. “ 

“Thomas would have loaded the gun,” said Greg slowly. “Maybe he thought Gerald was a threat?” 

“Perhaps he was,” said Sherlock. “Anger and betrayal can make fools of most men.” 

“Cecily would have grabbed the gun from Thomas,” said John. “They’d both been lying to her – she would have been so angry. But she wouldn’t have wanted either of them to die.” 

“She wouldn’t have shot them?” Greg asked. 

John thought. “No. I don’t think so. But maybe they didn’t know that.” 

“They would have struggled for the gun,” said Greg. “And it would have gone off—“ Greg shook his head. “Thomas would have blamed himself.” 

“Thomas is the one who ought to have a ghost story,” said John. “Christ.” 

“No,” said Greg evenly. “No – he’d want it forgotten. _He’d_ want to be forgotten. He wouldn’t think he’d deserve to be remembered.” 

“He must have forgiven himself eventually, if he married again,” said John. “And Cecily would have known it was an accident.” 

“He covered it up,” Greg reminded him. “And he never told the truth about when Gerald really returned. Maybe he thought Gerald would be blamed.” 

“Gerald precipitated the events leading to Cecily’s death,” said Sherlock. “He didn’t have to come back, but he did and in doing so, ruined what Cecily and Thomas had created for themselves. With the accusations flying…it’s hard to say what exactly occurred.” 

“Sherlock,” said John, and he reached for Sherlock’s hand. “You – you solved it.” 

That hadn’t been what John was going to say, Sherlock knew, but he squeezed John’s hand anyway. “Somehow, it’s not giving me much pleasure.” 

“Well, it’s not like I can make an arrest,” said Greg. “And if you don’t mind, I don’t think we’ll be telling the family or the letting office, either.” 

“No,” agreed Sherlock. A bit of the song from the pub came floating back to the hallway. 

_We’re forward wanting_  
 _Past the haunting_  
 _Bury the memory_  
 _We don’t want to go back…_

“No,” said Sherlock again. “I’m sorry, John. Another one solved that isn’t for the blog.” 

John laughed. “I’ll manage.” 

* 

Later, in the dark of the night, John slept and Greg reached across him for Sherlock’s hand. 

“We’re glad you came home, you know. You didn’t come between us.” 

“I know,” said Sherlock after a moment. 

“Just – what you said in the pub earlier. How Gerald came between Cecily and Thomas…” 

“Gregory,” said Sherlock evenly. “I’m hardly comparable to Gerald Mortimer.” 

Greg chuckled softly. “As long as you know it.” 

“You…you wouldn’t have killed John.” 

“Of course not,” said Greg. “John’s the one with the gun. Much more likely he would have killed you. Half the time I’m surprised he didn’t.” 

Sherlock ran his fingers along the back of Greg’s hand. “If he had…” 

“He wouldn’t have.” 

“But…would you have covered for him?” 

“Of course,” said Greg, and he didn’t sound the least bit surprised that Sherlock asked. “And if you’d killed John, I would have covered for you. But you know what? Never gonna happen. I’m not worried.” 

“No?” 

“Nah,” said Greg, and closed his eyes. “Trust you both too much.” 

Sherlock swallowed. “I’m always going to take your warrant cards. I’m always going to carry John’s gun if he can’t.” 

“Then I’ll always love the man who nicks my warrant cards and carries John’s gun.” Greg yawned. “Go to sleep, love. We can talk in the morning.” 

“All right,” said Sherlock. 

A few minutes later, Greg was asleep, his soft snores blending with John’s. 

Sherlock stayed awake for some time.


	7. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Major props to the always supportive earlgreytea68, the ever encouraging wendymr, and the endlessly patient fennishjournal, without whom this story would not exist. If you enjoyed this and have not read Fenn’s [Rites of Passage](http://archiveofourown.org/series/18534) series, upon which it was based, please do go and read it. But maybe read this epilogue first.

The remainder of the holiday flew; the apiary kept Sherlock enthralled for the entire day, and the trio went home with four jars of honey. Sherlock had assisted with decanting some of the newly acquired honey, with great enthusiasm. The military museum kept John likewise captivated, and Greg had to resort to drastic measures to convince him to leave the gift shop after an hour. 

The drastic measures kept them entertained for the rest of the day, and it was a very good thing roast dinners made good leftovers, because none of them were up for much activity after that. 

There was rain the last day, so much of it that they didn’t think twice about staying in and putting the downstairs shower through its paces. Greg spent most of the afternoon restoring the kitchen to its proper order, and Sherlock climbed the stairs up to the attic one last time to put everything back into Cecily’s trunk where he’d found it. John stretched out on the couch in front of the television and shouted abuse at the football match. 

It was a good day, and just before dinner, as the sun was setting, the rain abated enough that John was willing to don a coat and step out onto the porch leading to the sea. 

“You’re not thinking about another skinny dip, are you?” Greg asked, opening the door. 

“I’m not entirely stupid,” said John. 

“Good, because dinner’s almost ready.” 

“D’you remember the ghost story about Cecily?” 

Greg opened the door a little more. “And here I thought you said you weren’t entirely stupid.” 

“Just having a look, that’s all.” 

Greg leaned against the doorframe. “And?” 

“And nothing, it’s dark and pouring rain. For all I know Cecily Kinton is out there dancing a fandango with the Four Horsemen and Queen Victoria.” 

Greg laughed. “Come on in, then. You can pull Sherlock out of the attic before he discovers another murder.” 

Greg went back into the house, but John didn’t follow just yet. He stepped out to the end of the porch, waited for the motion sensor light to flick off, and then squinted into the rain. It was nearly impossible to see anything, and certainly living with Sherlock had a tendency to either make one immune to flights of fancy – or maybe exactly the opposite. 

“Hey,” said John, under his breath. “Ah…rest in peace. If you’re out there, anyway.” 

The rain seemed to let up for just a moment, and the air smelled of salt and lavender. 

Just a fancy, thought John, and turned to go back inside. 

* 

The drive home was much the same as the drive down. Greg packed the car, careful to keep the leftovers on ice. John put his laptop in the boot, and Sherlock created incessant delays by conveniently forgetting they were meant to be going home in the first place. 

“You know, for someone who resisted leaving Baker Street at all, you’re doing a remarkable job of not wanting to go home,” John said, leaning into the attic. 

“Something doesn’t fit,” said Sherlock, still sitting by the open trunk, and John groaned. 

“Of course it doesn’t,” he sighed. “What now?” 

“Why Gerald still staged his return two days after Cecily’s death.” 

“Maybe he felt guilty,” said John. “Maybe he had other friends to see. Maybe he’d travelled all that way and didn’t want to go without at least saying goodbye. Christ, Sherlock, maybe _he_ was the one who shot Cecily in the melee.” 

“It would explain reports of his ghost at her gravesite,” said Sherlock thoughtfully. 

“Believe in ghosts now, do you?” 

“You’re the one who communed with Cecily on the porch last night.” 

“I – how did you know that? No, never mind. My jumper was damp and you could smell the rain on my skin.” 

Sherlock shrugged. “I looked out the window and saw you.” 

John stared at him, and then began to laugh. “Finish putting that away, we need to get on the road or we’re going to hit traffic getting into London.” 

“There’s always traffic into London. And the trunk was open when I found it.” 

John frowned. “What? I thought everything was meant to be put away up here.” 

Sherlock shrugged and moved the newspaper clippings back into the trunk. “It was open, in the middle of the attic.” He looked up thoughtfully. “A bit like someone _wanted_ me to find it, and solve the mystery. Never did find Thomas’s ghost.” 

John shivered, a little like a cold draft had just snuck right down the back of his neck. “Right, well, put it away anyway.” 

“John, the attic is not haunted. You’ve been here all week and not once have you been the least bit squeamish, and now that I mention the merest hint of a ghost, you can barely look over your shoulder for fear.” 

“Sod off,” said John automatically. 

Sherlock made a small, amused noise in the back of his throat, and slammed the trunk shut. “There was meant to be a history of Thomas Kinton in the welcome packet; perhaps he hid that from us when he pulled out the trunk?” 

“ _Sherlock_.” 

Sherlock was the epitome of innocence. “Did you pack my honey?” 

“Yes, and we wrapped the jars so there’s no danger of them breaking open. And before you ask, your violin’s packed as well. Any other crises? Because I think Greg is itching to get on the road before it gets too late.” 

“No,” said Sherlock, and followed John down the stairs. 

Greg was waiting at the car, not looking terribly impatient, though clearly ready to be gone. Sherlock paused before climbing into the back seat, and looked back at the house. 

“It was a good murder,” he said. 

Greg rolled his eyes. “If that’s your way of saying Thanks Greg, Nice Holiday, Let’s Do This Again, then I agree with you.” 

“Except maybe without the hundred year old murder next time, yeah?” said John. 

“A fresh murder would be much more interesting, thank you, John,” said Sherlock, and got into the car. 

“Yeah, _thank you_ , John,” said Greg, and John glared. 

“That’s _not_ what I meant.” 

“John! I need your laptop.” 

“It’s in the boot. _Close the door, Sherlock_.” 

“Greg hasn’t started the car yet.” 

Greg started the car. “Homeward bound.” 

“What precisely am I meant to do for the next two hours?” 

“Why don’t you complain and behave like a stroppy teenager? That worked so well for you on the way down.” 

“John, sarcasm does not become you.” 

“Yes, it does. Sarcasm becomes me extremely well. You _love_ me because of my sarcasm.” 

“Where is your phone?” 

“Mycroft is already tracking my laptop, leave my phone out of it.” 

Sherlock remained silent. 

“Christ,” swore John, and put his head in his hands. 

The car rumbled down the gravel path, away from the house and on its way back to London. Its three passengers bickered and complained and resisted the urge to throttle each other for most of the journey. Greg swore at traffic, John groaned and wished for cups of tea that never materialized, and Sherlock played with his pirate eyepatch, said that it didn’t fit properly, and made plans to melt it into a better shape for his face. 

And if they stopped talking long enough to smile at each other out of the corner of their mouths every so often, amused and grateful and feeling particularly blessed…well, then. That was only to be expected.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Cover for "The Adventure of the Resurrected Lover" by Azriona](https://archiveofourown.org/works/996131) by [Lovesfic (me23)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/me23/pseuds/Lovesfic)




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